


Reweave Fate

by Water_Slime (Fire_Slime)



Series: The Long, Harsh Road [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Family Bonding, Fix-It, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Reincarnation-fic, Second Chances, Slow Build, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, bookverse, mergeverse, redemption-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 123,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Slime/pseuds/Water_Slime
Summary: Hogwarts will never be a safe place for Harry, but always before it seemed safer than Privet Drive.  Now, however, someone (a Death Eater) somehow has entered him into the fabled Triwizard Tournament.  To make things worse, their newest ally refuses to share any knowledge as to how this happened (or maybe he doesn't know).  Time travel complicates everything, and Harry had enough wild cards in his life before time-traveling sorcerers were thrown into the mix.But hey, he can do what's coming to be what he's best at: plan, wing it, and build alliances so that when therealthreat rears its head, they're ready.  He just has to last out this war without dying permanently.  That should be easy enough, right?  All he has to do is survive a Tournament discontinued due to its high death rate amongst "older" wizards, build a network of alliances, and, with his family's help, try to reweave fate to save as many people as possible from the immediate threat.Looks like he won't be making much progress in the quest to find a way to defeat Thanos this year--but hey!  At least he gets to bond with his godfather, and uncover even more secrets from the Marauders' past.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley (family), Harry Potter & Stephen Strange, Harry Potter & Thor (Marvel) (family), Loki & Stephen Strange, Loki (Marvel) & Ron Weasley (family), Loki (Marvel) & Thor (Marvel) (family), Loki (Marvel)/Luna Lovegood, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship, Ron Weasley & Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange & Thor, background Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, minor Hermione Granger/Thor (Marvel), pre Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, pre Loki (Marvel)/Ginny Weasley
Series: The Long, Harsh Road [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1500944
Comments: 137
Kudos: 120





	1. The Newest Squatter of Privet Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius is _totally_ on his best behaviour for the Dursleys, even before Ron shows up to warn Harry that he's about to receive a letter. Also, to rat Harry out about their previous years' misadventures. That, too.

This summer was definitely shaping up to be very different from that preceding second year. The Dursleys grit their teeth, but conceded that he be allowed to send messages to his friends, even, which was greater freedom than they'd ever allowed before. They were forced to cut back on their list of chores, and to ease up on their restrictions which made it impossible for him to do his homework, even, without going behind their backs. He still had chores, but they were now more manageable, because the Dursleys were acutely aware that they could no longer starve him, lock him in his cupboard, or keep him in line with threats of violence (or actual violence). Sirius Black was watching.

For the first time ever, the Dursley residence came close to being a place of, albeit limited, freedom. He had more options than he could ever recall having in his entire life spent there.

In short, he had no idea what to do with himself.

The continuing influx of news about a genocide in Africa he'd missed hearing about whilst at Hogwarts reminded him of his purpose, whilst underscoring the tendency of life to throw these sorts of things into his life, even in passing. He had enough self-awareness to realise how arrogant it was to hear of suffering on another continent, and even _briefly_ entertain the idea that it was anything to do with him, but he knew that it was unfortunate instances such as these that had helped to foster the mindset of himself as world-liberator/saviour. Almost, he understood, when he heard such news.

He took to thinking deep, and rather brooding, thoughts about Thanos, and the coming war, which was inevitable. He'd set aside his plans for it at some point, perhaps second year, and had come back to work on it, now and then, in the wake of Ron's revelation…but it was still something that could barely be considered even a sketch. All the gaps in his planning let him know, with the force of being hit in the head with a hammer, just how little he knew of the future.

Come to Earth, cause trouble in New Mexico, go back home, Fall, be turned inside out, and then try to take over the Earth. Adapt superficially, now and then, enough to not attract unwanted attention. Know at least enough of the rules not to arouse dsuspicion. Where did any of that knowledge come from? He didn't know.

That there were still gaps in his memory was quite unfair, and rather unnerving. That this realisation had taken so long to hit him made him think that he might be overestimating his own abilities at reason and logic, or even his own intelligence, not something he liked considering.

And the future…how would he learn about that? He could learn more about Thor's friends, the Avengers, from Thor, himself…that was the other hurdle (although that knowledge was also limited). But how could he start to plan without knowledge of how long they had—how far away _was_ Thanos? Why hadn't he attacked Earth while it was still recovering from the Chitauri Invasion? Just when had Thor gone back in time? But back then, Thor had viewed time in a purely Asgardian fashion—he didn't know that, himself.

All Harry's analysis told him that, regardless of consequence and circumstances he didn't know—no matter what the _after_ held—the Chitauri Invasion had to happen. And that meant that everything that _preceded_ it had to happen. Although it might be in his power to prevent the shattering of his not-so-dream-family, although he might be able to save his past self, although to do otherwise would hurt both Ron and Thor, he had no choice but to let it all play out as it had. Because that was the event that had brought the Avengers together.

More importantly, it had called attention to the threat posed by other worlds…validated Fury's plans, perhaps, but shown that extraterrestrials were more than mere Urban Legend, that there were genuine threats outside of the Earth, from which it needed protection. And perhaps Fury would be less ready to listen to him after such an Invasion—particularly if he knew that Harry was aware that it was going to happen, decades in advance, before any of the participants. But that distrust paled in comparison to the necessity of showing even Fury just what he was up against.

Ideally, he'd already be placed in America by then, and with a ready alibi, and the ability to gain the Avengers' trust. Ron could help with that. And Hermione, when she knew. And Sirius. And maybe Remus. If they were out, across the sea, in New York, for the Invasion, they might be able even to mitigate some of the damage that had been done. And they'd be ready to help with…what came afterwards? That lack of knowledge made planning impossible. He needed to talk to Thor.

When all of this planning began to seem hopeless wandering in circles, and he wasn't busy writing his essays and memorising facts (and recipes for Potions), he turned his mind to the idea of how to help Sirius. He'd talk about it to Hedwig, if nothing else. He'd used her as a sounding board before. She was a smart girl, even if she didn't understand the intricacies of his theories. Mostly, however, it was just for someone to talk to. He thought of what Mother had taught him of healing, which was almost certainly his best recourse: there was nothing in wizarding history quite like Sirius's case. He'd look in Flourish and Blott, anyway….

He started taking notes on muggle paper, because…why not? It had been years since he'd used a paper and pen, and they seemed strange in his hands. He sighed. His other memories weren't helping with that, either. At least ballpoint pens didn't need to be dipped in ink…and they were less messy….

It occurred to him that there were few ways that he could take notes on anything, anymore, without the risk of Sirius finding them. He came up with a sort of code, and spent the first part of his summer painstakingly translating what he was going to use of his original notes into this code. Conspicuous? He hoped not. There were runes in there, and symbols he came up with, himself, things that he thought would be memorable, that would make sense to him. He didn't bother writing down a translation of the code anywhere.

Infuriatingly, this exercise felt familiar to him, although he couldn't place the memory. Perhaps something of the gaps?

Sirius seemed to have an instinct for when it was best to approach Harry, and when to leave him alone. He seemed to spend far too much time goading the Dursleys, but, as he explained to Harry, he was bored.

As the summer progressed, he occasionally disappeared for days at a time, and returned with things Harry had never seen before—potions ingredients that must be quite rare, and certainly not available in the school supply cabinets, or on the list of school materials; books written in languages _Harry_ didn't recognise, which Sirius seemed to treat as curiosities; and now and then mysterious…things that Harry couldn't even begin to guess at. Most of them kept in small boxes.

Sometimes, too, he returned with old robes, old clothes, personal belongings…even a few photos and letters. And he was always game to answer any of Harry's questions, although not always coherent enough to do that very well. He loved talking about his time in Hogwarts, and about Harry's dad, James, and grandparents (why had he never given them a second thought before?).

He related some of the pranks that the Marauders had pulled, and, after one occasion in which Uncle Vernon had had a bad day and was ready to take it out on Harry—a day in which Sirius was absent, for which he apologised profusely—he finally confessed some of the nastiness of his own past. He seemed to feel that he owed Harry that.

But Harry told him that the Dursleys' current behaviour was nothing as bad as he was used to, and that Sirius needed to live his own life ("Why don't you go back to St. Mungo's for treatment? I'll be _fine_. If you're bored, perhaps I should be paying more attention to you."). Somehow, none of this reassured Sirius, who seemed to feel that he was thrice a bad guardian, and resolved to keep an even closer eye on Harry after that…and murder the Dursleys. Harry quietly suspected that Ron had first dibs on that.

Hearing about the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was a horrifying experience—Harry would readily say that Sirius had had a worse childhood than he. But he couldn't help reserving judgement on the younger brother of the two Black siblings, not just because of how Sirius sort of reminded him of Thor, with his impulsive recklessness and anger-management issues on top of a fierce loyalty…it wasn't just that Regulus was the younger brother, assumed evil, slain young.

Okay, maybe it was. Still, he didn't like the uncertainty hidden in the narrative of that story. _No_ , no one had ever found the body. But his name was crossed out on the family tapestry, and he certainly hadn't been disowned (and _Mother_ burnt the names of those disowned from the Black family off the tapestry with a special spell). Rumour abounded; even in Azkaban, they told of how Voldemort had ordered his execution. That had to make it official.

Kreacher, the evil house-elf, still adored Regulus, still followed Walburga Black's blood purity madness. Sirius shouldn't have left Regulus to fend for himself in that snake's nest…he surely would have been able to keep Regulus from going to the bad….

Harry shivered at the comparisons he kept making, and subtly changed the subject. He suspected Sirius caught his discomfort despite that (he seemed to notice _everything_ ), but he didn't mention it. Doubtless, he was confused, noticing how the puzzle pieces didn't seem to all mesh together. That was hardly surprising, as Harry was a mishmash of two different puzzles, and the dementors had really roughed up the metaphorical edges of those puzzles' pieces. And then you had to add in both Thanos and Voldemort….

One of these days, he was going to have to tell Sirius the truth. But he had to understand him better, first. Ideally, it would be after Sirius recovered…but who knew when that would be?

* * *

Ron showed up out of nowhere towards the end of July, in his typical fashion. He gave Sirius a bit of a fright, appearing at the window as he did. If Harry had known that Ron was going to pay them a visit, he would have warned his new roommate about protocol. As it was, Sirius, always swift on the draw, had his wand aimed straight at Ron's face before he could even realise who it was.

"It's alright, Sirius," Harry said, rolling his eyes as he crossed to the window. "Ron does this whenever he visits. I'd love to say that's what the bars are there for, but you can probably see the grooves in the sill where three of them got pulled out in the summer of my second year, so I doubt you'd believe it."

He threw open the window. "This is becoming something of a tradition, by now. I suppose you took the Knight Bus. I must reimburse you for taking your life into your own hands. No matter who or what you are, I doubt the Knight Bus is good for anyone's health. Come in. Don't just hang there. You'd think you'd know by now."

Ron carefully eased his way around the bars into the room. He paused when he noticed Sirius lowering the wand.

"You have a worthy defender," he said to Harry, who just smiled.

"Now, I've gathered everyone inclined to be overprotective of me into one room. I suppose I shall spend the rest of the summer locked up here… for my protection, this time?"

Ron paused. "Ah. No. I came to warn you that Dad has seats for the Quidditch World Cup, and is sending a rather unusual letter to your…guardians. They may not appreciate the number of stamps Mum used."

Harry wanted to see that envelope, now.

"If you intend to join us for the Quidditch World Cup, you should start packing soon. I also feel that I should inform you that they plan on arriving via floo powder. That did not seem to agree with you the summer before second year…."

Harry frowned. "Ah…yes, _that_ was embarrassing. I don't think I want to end up in Knockturn Alley, again."

"'Knockturn Alley'?" Sirius repeated. "How did you end up _there_?"

Harry grimaced. "Thank you for the warning," he said, turning back to Ron. "It _is_ good to see you again. How _have_ I survived this much of the summer without my overprotective big brother watching out for me?"

"Harry, I have said before—"

"—that I shouldn't make light of my own death. I remember." He looked down, frowning and turning to Hedwig's empty cage.

"Damn right you shouldn't!" Sirius cried, apparently wide-awake now. Out of force of habit, Harry flinched, winced, opened his mouth to suggest that he _keep it down, please_.

Ron and Sirius both saw, both understood. Sirius looked incredibly guilty. Ron clenched his fists tight, but at least electricity wasn't gathering in them. He seemed to have gotten that pretty much under control. That was a relief: Harry had no idea how he'd explain to Sirius that Ron's "accidental" magic always seemed to manifest as lightning.

"Are you alright, little brother? Have the Dursleys treated you well?"

Harry smiled, spreading his arms wide. "As if they'd _dare_ harm me, now."

"And what of last week?" Sirius interjected, frowning. That was quite a reproachful frown. Of _course_ , Sirius had to bring that up. Harry glared at him.

"I'm _fine_ ," he retorted. "Really, for the Dursleys, that was _tame_. They're holding back—"

"Then what do they usually do, Harry?" asked Sirius, with deadly calm. Harry paled. He didn't want to think of what Sirius's reaction would be if he ever learnt the true extent of the Dursleys' mistreatment of him. Restraint only got you so far with someone like Thor.

"So when should I expect this letter?" he asked. Sirius glanced his way, and his expression said that this discussion was far from over. It was one of his rare moments of maturity. _Why_ did one of them have to show up right now?

"Harry," said Ron, who was far less likely to even let the matter sit for a while.

Harry sighed. "Look, I know you're smart enough to read between at least some of the lines in my behaviour. But they didn't leave that many scars. It was mostly starvation and locking me—in my room, I mean." He shot Ron a meaningful look. One that said that Sirius had yet to learn about the cupboard under the stairs. "I already told you the most important things. Can we return to the reason for your visit, now?"

Because lying would never avail him in such situations. Sirius was sure to find out everything, sooner or later, and there were few important details missing from his account of the Dursleys that he'd given Ron years ago…back when Ron had just been Ron. Or rather, back before he'd known.

"Bastards," Sirius snarled. "I should kill them—"

"I'm pretty sure that Ron has seniority on that," Harry said, in a deliberately light tone, cutting him off. "He learnt about it first, after all. But if you do that, I'll lose the protection of my Mother's love—the thing that's kept me alive at least twice since I've come to Hogwarts. It's the reason I survived first and second year."

"And just _what_ happened first and second year?" Sirius asked, eyes narrowed. Ah. Yes. He knew he'd forgotten something. Harry glared at Ron, as if it were his fault.

"Hey, Ron, do you feel like a sleepover? I've never had one of those. We can swap stories, and you can ensure Sirius doesn't murder me for getting into so much trouble…."

Because talking about the first two years, even in summary, was sure to take a long time. It was Ron's fault for bringing this up, anyway.

* * *

It took hours to tell the entire story to Sirius, of course. He didn't seem to know how to react. Had the items in this room not all been either Harry's belongings, or highly dangerous… _things_ he'd brought from Grimmauld Place, he would likely have broken a few things, thrown a few others, and punched a few holes in the walls. Were it not for his understanding that any misbehaviour on his part would reflect onto Harry, he would likely have shouted. Instead, he cast a _silencio_ on himself, shouted a bit, and took to pacing the room.

His anger, worse, had no ready outlet—he could hardly fault Harry or Ron for the situations they'd been drawn into; only the incident involving the troll was anything like their fault, really. The rest of the time, they'd been the victims of inflated circumstance and statistical improbability. He wanted to blame Dumbledore, but knew that the old man was hardly omniscient. He'd believed Pettigrew to be dead, had believed that Sirius to be a traitor, had never realised that the Marauders were animagi. Dumbledore was the most likely target, however.

In the end, the emotions had him drained and worn out. The dementors fostered negative emotions, draining out the positive. It was hardly surprising that anger at the injustice of what Harry had gone through, and fear of the future, were easier to reach than the joy and relief that Harry had survived, that he'd lived long enough, despite the odds, to meet Sirius, for them to reach this point. Sirius knew that he should just be grateful that Harry was still here.

A _basilisk_? A mountain troll? A three-headed dog, guarding the legendary artefact known as the Philosopher's Stone? What was next? Grindelwald?

And the thought of Harry facing off against Voldemort, two years in a row. Whoever decreed people's fates—if there were any, and he'd had his phase of researching such things—must have it out for Harry. But he knew that his presence here in Harry's life took away the threat of the Dursleys—they and no other. It wasn't protecting Harry against Voldemort. And that prophecy… it suggested that the two would keep being drawn together, again and again, until the prophecy was fulfilled.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair (hey, he'd tried short hair; it didn't suit him). He tried not to make Harry worry about him. He knew that Harry often did, that they seemed to be co-dependents. Harry looked after him, with that strange, almost understandable advanced maturity he had, and he looked after Harry.

Although, it seemed Ron'd done a much better job of that than he, over the years.

 _And where were you_? he kept asking himself, as Harry's tale progressed. But he was powerless to change the past. All he could do was help Harry from now on. Harry had to be his priority, as he should have been, that Hallowe'en night. He couldn't make up for his past failures, but he could make sure that he never failed Harry again.

 _Are you sure of that_? asked the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in…years. Decades. Damn, his mind was messed up….

He sighed, sinking his head into his hands. He couldn't promise that he'd always be there; he'd already failed Harry once this summer. But….

"Just let me know what I can do to help you," Sirius begged. "You know I'll do anything for you, kiddo."

Harry blinked, staring at him as if thrown off-balance, as if he'd never expected anyone to say anything like that to him, and that _hurt_. It was an actual, physical ache in Sirius's chest. "Come on, kiddo, you must have known that before."

"And I," Ron interjected, shooting Harry a look that Sirius couldn't decipher. Something else that they'd kept from him, but Harry deserved his secrets, and, although Sirius'd shared some of his own past, Harry deserved his privacy. Sirius knew how it felt to be vulnerable, to be laid bare, defenceless. It was not a good feeling. He'd pushed Harry too hard. He'd been like all the other adults in Harry's life.

"Sorry, kiddo. But look, you can tell me _anything_ , and I promise not to judge you."

Harry looked as if there was something he wanted to say. But he opened his mouth, closed it, and ended up saying nothing at all.

But Sirius knew that he was listening, and that was all that mattered.


	2. To the Burrow!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a dream about an old man being murdered by Riddle, and returns to The Burrow, where Ginny attempts to start an argument with him.

Ron most likely arrived back home after sunrise of the next morning, and was probably summarily punished by Mrs. Weasley, which was a strange thought. After that, Sirius was filled with boundless excitement towards the idea of the coming World Cup. He kept talking about (what seemed to be) every quidditch match he'd ever attended, professional and not, speculating as to how long this match would last, and going over the rosters of the two teams involved (this involved a few more quiet disappearances, but they were in the middle of the night; he refused to leave Harry alone whilst the Dursleys were awake).

Sirius thrust a book of quidditch techniques into his hands, and Harry, bemused and a bit alarmed at Sirius's enthusiasm, did as he was asked, and studied quidditch "trivia and tactics". _Quidditch through the Ages_ was quick to follow, and Harry thought of Hermione, in first year, preparing for the first flying lesson, with a pang. He'd been exempted from flying lessons after that; he rather thought that everyone else at Hogwarts was still taking those classes, which seemed rather unfair. Think of all the basic knowledge he was being denied.

But, hey, owing to his position on the quidditch team, Sirius seemed to think him ready to learn not only how to perform complicated aerial manoeuvres, but the _names_ of these, as well. Combine that with analysis of the statistics of the Irish and Bulgarian teams….

How did Sirius keep track of all this? Were all sports fans this… _thorough_? Did Sirius have an entire compartment or his brain dedicated to this knowledge, untouched by the dementors? Of course, he knew that James, his dad, had been a chaser on the gryffindor quidditch team…but he'd never gone pro, had never had the chance to try half of these moves. Still, a part of him couldn't wait to try some of the trickier moves against Malfoy. Why was that, exactly?

At least Sirius was keeping busy, and was spending time with him, without even moping. Sirius had gone into town to buy his own tickets, full of that casual confidence, the certainty that the world would part for him, that everyone would go out of their way to please him, the last heir to the House of Black, that Stark had. It was what came of being born and raised in privilege, even if your family was as messed up as the Blacks. And was that family ever a tangled mess!

Somehow, he'd managed to secure seats in the Top Box with the Weasleys. And he must have realised beforehand that he'd be able to do just that. Unfortunately, he returned from his excursion to inform Harry that Malfoy would also be there. Well, you couldn't have everything, and it made sense: the Malfoys were a powerful, and prominent, family, who quite enjoyed flaunting their wealth. Still, both of their moods soured at this little fact. Harry contemplated shoving Malfoy off the height of the stands if he spoke even a word ill against the Weasleys, Remus, _or_ Sirius. Malfoy was bad enough in school, but to see him at an event that Harry would otherwise _enjoy_ ….

Sirius, though subdued, nevertheless continued Harry's impromptu quidditch lessons with feigned cheer and energy. It meant that they spent less time around the Dursleys, so Harry humoured him.

Harry quite expected to have dreams filled with quidditch teams after that. Instead, he was alarmed by a dream involving the murder of an elderly muggle man who dared to stand up to Riddle. Perhaps it was merely an echo of the last few days of memories from his dreams, or perhaps it was another instance of Fate's cruel resonance in _this_ life. He had to admire that muggle man—Frank Bryce (a name swift to leave his memory after he woke), who, despite not knowing who or even _what_ he faced, died defying Voldemort.

Harry had no idea how he knew his name, but he wrote that down, with everything else he could remember of the dream, on a blank sheet of notebook paper, careful to be as quiet as he could, lest he wake Sirius. Sirius was hovering enough as it was, thank you. He didn't need _another_ Ron.

He did, however, tell Sirius what he'd written down once Sirius woke up. He wasn't expecting Sirius to lecture him about "why didn't you wake me up and tell me, Harry?", or to treat the dream as some sort of important sign of the future.

"And that traitor was in the dream?" he spat. "That traitor" was what Sirius usually called Peter Pettigrew. Harry nodded, trying to figure Sirius out. Sirius ran his hands through his hair as if trying to finger-comb it. He was pacing back and forth in uneven lines. It reminded Harry of something, although he had no idea what. Perhaps the fact that he tended to pace whenever he was agitated, and trying to think. Or agitated. Or trying to think.

"Sirius?" he asked, more than a bit bewildered at Sirius's current actions.

"We should send word to Dumbledore," Sirius said, firmly. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. Harry had had no notion that the dream was that important.

"Whatever for? I've had plenty of strange dreams," Harry said.

"Dreams that mesh _this_ well with reality? With this much continuity? Dreams are usually full of flux, inconsistent, erratic. This one seems consistent with external reality—what we know of it. Pettigrew rejoined his master, has prepared some sort of solution to give Voldemort a semi-corporeal form—a possibility—and is back in Britain. No longer in Albania. You hear that he murdered a witch named 'Bertha Jorkins'—I've heard of her, by the way—and that he's planning to murder you somehow after the World Cup—but you aren't concerned?"

"He's always planning to murder me," said Harry, shrugging. It certainly seemed true. Sirius's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned razor sharp. But there was more than a hint of worry in it, too.

"I'm with Ron: stop making light of your own death! Don't you realise that there are people who care about you? I, and Ron, and Hermione, and Remus, and Tonks, and the entire Weasley clan, if I can judge, not just Ron. You're not going to get anywhere if you never plan ahead. You've got some notion of what's coming: use it!"

Harry blinked, stunned as if stricken. That sounded like the sort of advice he'd give to Thor.

"Hey, now, I'm not saying that I'm not planning ahead, " he replied, feeling rather defensive. "I just don't see how much Dumbledore could make of what we've said."

"He would be able to find out if Bertha Jorkins has gone missing, as your dream suggests. That would be enough to validate it. He'd increase security at the castle—"

"How? Hogwarts is smothered in protective magic—even You-Know-Who can't get through! There's nothing Dumbledore can do that he hasn't already—except forbid me come back to Hogwarts, I suppose. But I can't hide here at Privet Drive for the rest of my life, either—the prophecy is the prophecy, and you're the one sure it will find a way to be fulfilled. Defying it only prolongs the inevitable. I'm not rushing into danger; I'm being realistic. Except for this last year, the school year ends in a battle between me and Riddle, and I pull through in the end. If there's prophecy involved, perhaps it's even inevitable.

"Suppose Dumbledore checks up on the facts. Suppose he confirms that Bertha Jorkins is missing, that Riddle is nearby, that Peter Pettigrew is in Britain, too. Then what? I think you overestimate Dumbledore's abilities. What could he do? With such limited information—I don't even know where that dream took place! Riddle is a disembodied wraith, one that, apparently, only I can defeat. There's a reason Dumbledore's only been keeping tabs on him since his disappearance the night when—the night of his fall.

"But, fine! I'm not saying you shouldn't send him a letter—you know best. I only don't understand why you think this is important…. But…I suppose you're right. It wasn't very like the dreams I usually have."

In fact, its stark vividness had him thinking of the dreams that had come to him when he'd been ten. There was that same sense of super-reality to them. That they were more than mere creations of his subconscious, but depicting actual events. He had to concede that fact.

"Thank you, Sirius," he said, bowing his head, and looking down at the floorboards under his bed. He _was_ an ingrate, wasn't he? He should be glad, grateful that he now had a guardian who _cared_ about him living in the same house at him—someone who _could_ send messages to Dumbledore. Someone who cared about Harry enough to worry about him, enough to contact Dumbledore at the mere hint that he was in danger.

"I get it, kiddo," Sirius said, resting a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. Harry managed to mostly suppress his flinch, but Sirius must have noticed. His grip tightened, and his face drew taut. "I've been where you are. Don't forget that. I understand where you're coming from."

 _Is that what you believe, Sirius? But you do not know my biggest secret._ Harry raised his eyes to look at Sirius, but had to close them at that pained expression. _He'd_ caused that.

 _I should tell him_ , Harry thought, yet again. Yet again, however, he did nothing.

* * *

The letter arrived a few days after Ron's visit, delivered by the mailman in person, who thought that the envelope's coating of stamps was amusing. Aunt Petunia was personally offended at the mailman's humour at their expense. She bristled, snatching the envelope from the poor man's hands, and storming over to Harry to thrust the envelope into his, with a huff. With Sirius watching, it was all that she dared to do.

Harry opened the envelope with some care, after thoroughly examining it. It was drowning in stamps, which created a waterproof coating around the letter, save for a tiny corner in which Mr. Weasley had squeezed in the Dursleys' address. Despite that, the letter voiced the Weasleys' concerns that they might not have put on enough stamps. He could just picture Ron biting his tongue to keep from informing them of this fact…unless he'd never seen muggle post, either. The Earth (Midgard) he'd encountered twenty years hence had been more technologically advanced. He didn't think they used the post anymore—at least, not as much. It was possible that Thor had never encountered it…hard to imagine Stark using something so old-fashioned.

"We'd best send a reply to Mr. Weasley," said Harry to Sirius, as if they were the only two people in the house. "Let him know that we're coming, yeah?"

Aunt Petunia looked as if her grapefruit had rotted before her eyes, and she had lost her appetite. Harry smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room to pen the reply, leaving Sirius to do what he did best: annoy the Dursleys. This time there might be some substance couched in his insults, but they'd probably never find it.

* * *

They were to spend the next few weeks at The Burrow. Unfortunately, those weeks did not include Harry's fourteenth birthday, but Sirius had gone out of his way to make that day memorable, anyway, taking Harry into London and Diagon Alley. They'd raided Quality Quidditch Supplies and Flourish and Blotts. Those hours spent far from the Dursleys were gift enough. But this gave Sirius the occasion to reveal, in the most casual way imaginable, that he'd been the one to give Harry the Firebolt. Hermione had been right, again.

Harry had more fun in that outing than he recalled ever having. Sirius's casual confidence ensured that they received the best service without even trying, and his slightly sarcastic sense of humour had a way of restoring the novelty of ordinary experiences. Sirius was just a fun person in general, and his sense of adventure and enthusiasm were catching. It was the closest Harry had ever come to having an opportunity to just be a child.

Unfortunately, this kept the reminder of his past lurking in Harry's mind. How very contrary of his mind, to sabotage him, thus.

Did he truly qualify as being a child? Of course, he did. He must….

How exactly had Ron managed not to go mad with his identity crises?

A couple of days later, the Weasleys arrived, as threatened, via floo. Harry's attempts to forewarn Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia only served to ensure that they were covered in soot from the false fireplace (or, he supposed that that white stuff was plaster). Uncle Vernon went all purple under his thick coating of white dust, and rubble. Aunt Petunia swayed on her feet, but otherwise stood still as a statue. She looked pained. Dudley scuttled through the house crabwise, remembering Hagrid's assault on him prior to first year—the only experience he had with an adult wizard before Sirius had arrived, and, quite possibly, made things worse. Were it not Dudley, Harry might have been inclined to pity.

While Arthur Weasley was very apologetic, the Twins, who had been invited along for reasons unknown, ruined the effect by snickering behind his back at the proceedings. Harry raised an eyebrow at their antics. They didn't even have the excuse of being giddy on account of being in the presence of one of their idols to justify their actions: Harry had left it up to the Marauders to introduce themselves to the Twins, and the Marauders had yet to do this. The Twins were just…themselves.

Ron glanced over at Harry to ensure that Harry had no new injuries, and Sirius smiled, nodding his acknowledgement, hands in his black jeans. "We have everything we're bringing, and I remembered to place defences around the dangerous stuff I took from my childhood home that I left here. I think we're good to go."

Aunt Petunia swayed more violently at the mention of dangerous wizard contraband stuck in her house, and closed her eyes, as if about to faint. Uncle Vernon grabbed hold of her shoulder, and she clutched his arm as if to keep herself upright.

They left, one after the other, Mr. Weasley repeatedly issuing instructions to Harry on how to use floo powder. The Twins preceded him into the fire, and he half-expected to be shut out. But apparently, they'd spilt some sort of prank candy on the floor, "Ton-Tongue Toffees", which had swollen Dudley's tongue to a size that he could barely even breathe, and they'd wisely waited to coincide this with their departure.

Harry decided that this was a sign, if anything was, that he should be wary of the Twins. Never before had he realised that they might _accidentally_ kill him. And hadn't Ron mentioned the Twins as the originators of his arachnophobia, in second year? They were not to be underestimated. Either wizarding pranks were inherently more malicious than muggle ones, or they had a bit of a mean streak…. He decided not to get on their bad side, which… should have occurred to him before.

In a time before, he might have been inclined to challenge them to a prank war, but that was neither here nor there. Perhaps, when all was said and done…if everyone were still alive after Thanos had done with them….

Ah, yes. Happy thoughts. Sirius might have had to stay behind to help Mr. Weasley set Dudley right, but, as an ex-prankster, Harry had the greatest faith in his ability to undo what the Twins had done. After all, the Marauders were the Twins' _idols_.

Ron seemed a bit out of sorts following the Twins' newest pranks—this couldn't dredge up the _pleasantest_ memories, although there might be a bit of nostalgia to thoughts of less desperate times. Harry sat beside him, and quirked an eyebrow in his direction. Ron started, as if he'd just remembered that Harry was in the know. Entirely possible. Harry smirked, and Ron shuddered, and then Ginny entered the room.

"Hi, Harry!" she cried, an odd spring in her step as she approached, beaming at him. "I wasn't expecting you so soon!"

Ron gave his most puzzled frown, successfully distracted from bittersweet memories. Harry smiled.

"Ginny, we arranged Harry's retrieval days ago," Ron said, brow furrowed in evident confusion.

She blushed scarlet, looking down at the ground, and shot Ron a glare, aside. "I know _that_ , I just thought it would take longer, or something…. I dunno, it just feels like a surprise, to see Harry here. A good surprise, though."

She regained her steam at the end, as she turned her attention to Harry, who was unprepared to receive it.

"…Hello, Ginny," he said. "Have you had a good summer?"

Ron stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. And possibly a third. Ginny sat down across the table from both of them, but ignored Ron.

"Mum won't let me play quidditch," she huffed, crossing her arms in a pout. "But I suppose I've got the World Cup to look forward to. Still, you'd think that since I was reserve seeker last year…."

She gave a helpless little shrug.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You seemed an excellent flier on the tryouts," he said, smiling at her. She blushed and looked down at the floor.

"I hadn't realised that you were paying attention…I mean, you seemed pretty absent all last year on account of…you know, the _dementors_. I thought—"

"Well, I had to see if _you_ were any good, didn't I? Half of your family have been on the quidditch team, after all…."

Ginny blinked. "…Is this going to be one of those days when you're inexplicably nice to me?" she asked. He frowned at her, and then realised he was frowning, and leveled his expression out. He was distantly aware of the fact that he had an audience, which increased when Mrs. Weasley entered the room. Mostly, though, he was trying to understand where Ginny was coming from, which was quite a task at the best of times.

"I thought we'd been getting on well enough," he said, cocking his head, analysing her. She refused to meet his gaze.

"I just…what you said last Valentine's Day…and everything you did the last time you stayed here!"

He had no idea what she was talking about. He _did_ remember making her cry, which had hardly been his goal, so what was she upset about? He decided that apology was the best route, anyway.

"I'm very sorry about my behaviour before second year—before your first year. I never meant to make you cry."

Ginny's eyes narrowed, and she uncrossed an arm to point at him. "See, like that! You were friendly when we went to Diagon Alley, and then you teased me on Valentine's Day…and then you ignored me all last year—"

"I was hardly in my best frame of mind last year," he said. He shouldn't have to remind her of that: she'd _just_ mentioned it.

"Are you going to tease me and prank me or make me cry?" she asked, still pointing, eyes narrowed. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, and glanced aside at Ron, who seemed almost smug at their interaction. Eh, whatever.

"I only did that because you were treating me like some sort of freak; I get enough of that at the Dursleys'. I'd love to say 'let's start over, and let bygones be bygones', but then you'd go back to hiding from me and not saying a single word to me that you didn't have to. I'd rather not have that, either. I suppose I shall have to suffer your wrath, instead."

Ron was somehow succeeding in keeping them both in his field of vision—probably those battle reflexes at play, again. Harry scowled at Ron, and then leveled his expression out again before he turned to Ginny.

"Ginny, I've done my best to be polite to you whenever we've met," he said. He was not about to remind her that he'd offered to listen to her should she ever need to talk about what had happened with the diary. Now was not the time and place: Ron didn't know about it, and Mrs. Weasley was bustling in and out of the kitchen with such energy that she had to be eavesdropping. He knew gossipy behaviour when he saw it, grace of Aunt Petunia.

She huffed. "Oh, _politeness_! What better way to say that I'm not interesting enough to be your friend!" she said, which was so unfair that Harry stood up, putting his weight on the table to push himself upright faster.

"Now, come on, Ginny, that wasn't what I was saying at all!"

"It took a while, but we managed!" Mr. Weasley said, emerging from the fireplace, beads of sweat covering his face from either the heat of the fire or recent exertions. "Those Twins have really done it this time—that poor boy, he could have choked, just wait until I tell their mother—"

"Tell me what?" Mrs. Weasley asked, hands on her hips, as she returned from the kitchen.

"Ah, er, nothing, Molly dear," Mr. Weasley said, cowed.

"Your sons played a bit of a prank on that Dudley boy, is all," said Sirius, with a casual shrug, as he, too, emerged from the fireplace. He looked as if a lucky shard of porcelain had cut his exposed forearm. Mrs. Weasley was torn between the need to reprimand her children, and the need to see to that wound—the quintessential nurturing mother instinct, especially as she was older than Sirius.

The former won out when Sirius continued, with a little apathetic shrug. "Can't say as I blame them, honestly. I've been trying to _live_ with them for the past two months."

Mrs. Weasley was more than willing to disapprove of anyone who could fail to disapprove of her sons' pranking habits. She frowned, bustling out of the room to find Fred and George, who were taken by surprise in eavesdropping on word of their success.

Neither Sirius nor Mrs. Weasley seemed to realise that they'd just interrupted an argument; clearly the tension lacing the air must not be as obvious as it felt to Harry, who slowly unclenched his fists.

Ron glanced back and forth between Ginny and Harry. "Shall I remind you of the location of your room, then?" he asked.


	3. The Quidditch World Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Ginny have a conversation in which I almost manage to pass the Bechdel Test.  
> Later, Harry discusses veelas and magic with Sirius and Remus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **author's note:** This is the chapter that was, originally, going to start an entire subplot, but I abandoned the idea at the last moment. If the chapter seems to be missing something, that might be it. I'd been planning it for almost a year by the time it came around to writing this chapter, which gave me plenty of time to plan it all out, and yet, I realised...a week? before that I couldn't really explain how Clint Barton got onto the grounds of the Quidditch World Cup, and then I wondered whether movie-him was even with S.H.I.E.L.D. yet, and….
> 
> But, that was what it was going to be. Don't you think this 'fic has enough contrivances as it is?

Hermione, despite her lack of enthusiasm for quidditch, agreed to see the Quidditch World Cup for a number of reasons, among them the fact that she was friends with a bunch of quidditch maniacs, that her parents had insisted upon a respite from traveling the world (they'd been to Cornwall, Wales, and France; they deserved a break), and the fact that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they had prime seating.

She arrived the night before Harry did, which gave her some time to speak with Ginny. The poor girl reminded Hermione a bit of herself, first year, before The Troll Incident. Despite Ginny's passionate nature and confidence, she seemed to have trouble making friends; Hermione was aware of only one another female friend of Ginny's, some girl named "Luna", who wasn't even in the same House as Ginny. As they'd been childhood friends, Hermione assumed that "Luna" lived nearby.

But what Hermione was dying to discuss and what Ginny wanted to talk about were completely different. Ginny was already full of frenetic energy concerning the World Cup, rattling off all sorts of facts to Hermione the way that ordinarily only Hermione could rattle off information. But instead of hours dedicated to memorising textbooks, even when they were dull and boring, Ginny's database of facts were all about a subject that she considered immensely interesting, and Hermione rather dull.

If Hermione weren't best friends with Ginny's older brother, _and_ with Ginny's crush, they likely would never have stricken up such a friendship. Then again…if Hermione weren't friends with Harry and Ron, she doubted she'd have survived the troll attack, and even had she, she'd still be the quiet wallflower in the corner, desperately memorising unimportant trivia with the fervour that gave it greater import than it could ever deserve. Once you started on hypotheticals, all standard metrics failed. Who knew how different things might have been…?

Of course, she still liked thinking about and talking about school. Her personal goal was to discover what new subjects Ginny was taking—she was starting the third year, after all. No matter which class Ginny took, Hermione could do the big sister thing and help her out a little.

But Ginny was far too fixated upon the coming quidditch match. Before Hermione had arrived, she'd known next-to nothing about it, but she'd made the mistake of asking, "Bulgaria versus Ireland, was it?" with such hesitance that Ginny must have known that Hermione was ignorant about this subject. She launched into a detailed list of the players, their past exploits, strengths, and weaknesses, pausing to note that Krum was a world-renowned Seeker despite still being school aged.

"He's not as good as Harry, though…but he's much better than Lynch. There's sort of national pride at play for all of us here in the U.K.…England got knocked out of the running early, you know, but with Ireland in the championship, it's almost as good."

She had a sort of absent, dreamy look to her, as if it mattered that Britain had lost, or about whoever this Krum was. Hermione, for once, felt completely out of her depth.

Thus, she took the direct route. "Ginny, what courses are you taking this year?" she interrupted some sort of argument concerning velocity and Firebolts to ask. Ginny gave her a horrified, wide-eyed look.

"Hermione, it's the middle of _summer_. We're on _break_. _Why_ are you talking about school? I don't even want to _think_ about school right now. Mum made sure I got my homework done a few weeks after school let out—you can't get anything past Mum, you know. Not only has she been to Hogwarts, but then you have everyone else…be surprised if she doesn't have all the homework assignments we're assigned for which year memorised. At least, with the constant change in professors, we don't ever have Defence homework…."

Ginny could get off-track with alarming speed.

"Ginny, you know I don't really get quidditch. I just get drawn into all the fervour that surrounds House matches…and then you, and the boys are on the team…. Besides, I've been dying to know ever since the end of last year…you could borrow some of my notes, even—"

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "I've seen your notes, Hermione. Whenever possible, they're needlessly complicated. Besides, I have a lot of other, more comprehensible people whose old notes I could borrow…that I could actually understand. Sometimes, Hermione, I wonder if you even speak English."

Hermione turned several shades of red at this. One of the drawbacks of being raised amongst so many boys was that Ginny was unjustly direct for a girl her age, and a bit less sensitive. Her assertiveness helped her to hold her own amongst her family, but pushed away prospective friends. Unfortunately for Hermione, she was used to worse behaviour. It did make her wonder what sort of person Luna was, though.

"I'll tell you what, Hermione," said Ginny, realising that she'd angered Hermione. "If you help me practice quidditch so that I can stay on this year's team, at least as reserve, I'll tell you what classes I'm taking."

She rolled her eyes as if this were quite the concession, but Hermione felt her heart beginning to race at the mere thought of taking to the air. She'd never liked flying…and she wasn't any good at it; she knew that.

"Ginny," she squeaked, sounding about five years old. "You know I can't fly"

Ginny shook her head and tossed her hair. "I've heard. That's okay, though. I'm a reserve seeker, in case anything happens to Harry, you know, which it always does. You can just throw golf balls…I've heard that's how Wood tried Harry out…."

Hermione blinked, her heart relaxing. That didn't sound _too_ bad…but it was a bit of exertion for something she'd learn soon anyway, surely. Then again, Ginny was her friend…and Ron's little sister….

"Oh, fine, I'll help you for quidditch," she said, in her sensible, sure-I'll-check-your-homework voice. She'd resent that task less if those whose homework she was checking were stupid, or something, and needed the help.

"It's a deal," said Ginny, eyes sparkling. "And I promise I'll go easy on the quidditch talk."

* * *

Many things could be said about the Quidditch World Cup. It could be said to be noisy, and crowded, and garish. "Subtle", however, it was not. It was no wonder that poor Mr. Roberts was suspicious. Harry grit his teeth and tried not to think about the damage the Obliviators were doing to his mind. Harry was even less tolerant of mind magic than he'd been before he'd _known_.

It was just as well that they had had to wake up as early as they had to reach the hill that had the portkey in time to arrive at the stadium (he was fairly sure that Mr. Weasley had elected to walk rather than drive to ensure that they'd be _awake_ , by the time that they arrived; or maybe the Car had made too much of a scene last year, and Mrs. Weasley had put her foot down); it meant that Amos Diggory's exuberance over his son's skill stung less than it might otherwise have—he was not so arrogant or cocky (anymore?), but not so much humbler that he would graciously overlook someone making light of his failure at one of the few things he was good at. That the cause of his defeat in truth lay with the dementors, and what had resulted from even that brief exposure, just rubbed salt into the wound.

At least Cedric was a decent person. As he had in Harry's second year, when Hufflepuff House had been convinced that Harry was Slytherin's Heir (how long ago that seemed!), Cedric tried to silence his dad, but he had no authority over the man. He shot Harry quite a few apologetic and embarrassed looks, and his hands stayed stuck in his jeans pockets. By contrast, Ron looked ready to shoot lightning. The reminder of how near Harry had come to losing his soul was quite enough to push him to the edge, and a lack of sleep didn't help. Harry ended up grabbing hold of his arm, and yanking him away from Mr. Diggory.

Thankfully, the portkey was set to activate soon, and Mr. Weasley had an excuse to cut through Diggory's chatter to issue instructions. This was the first time Harry had ever used a portkey, which made the instructions necessary.

A means of traveling instantaneously across great distances using a physical object? Sounded a bit too _Tesseract_ for him. This was the third kind of wizarding transport that he had encountered, and the first after acknowledging the truth. These two facts combined to ensure that Harry, almost on a whim, but more to spite the universe, opened his seventh sense as far as he could, determined to analyse the makeup of the spell, and see if he could modify or recreate it with the _other_ kind of magic. It wasn't as if he were doing anything else.

It really was as if he were doing something else. There was an unpleasant dangling sensation to distract him, followed by that of being compressed into himself. He thought of Hermione's mention of _mundum aperio_ and polystate matter, as he analysed the spell despite the distraction. It was hardly as great of a distraction as the mortal peril he'd been in at the end of second year, and he'd worked through that.

Unsurprisingly, portkeys functioned by isolating their…victims, compressing them into infinitesimal pieces, and then carrying the thus-lightened load to its intended destination, to which it was attached by a sort of invisible bungee cord

Hmm. He'd have to think about this one.

They had scarce arrived, and registered themselves at the campsite with Mr. Roberts, before Cedric, still looking ashamed and humble, dragged his father away at last, before some sort of fight could break out.

They'd helped Mr. Weasley set up the tents (Hermione was of the most use, here, as she had previous experience camping; he almost forgave her for nearly strangling him in her hug yesterday). Mr. Weasley had finally finished setting up the tents, although it was a team effort. He'd set to building a fire in the firepit, and playing with a box of matches. He sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione off for water. It struck Harry as a phenomenally bad idea to leave Mr. Weasley here to set everything on fire. Muggle children were told not to play with matches, but wizard children clearly weren't.

Harry bit his cheek to keep from making some sort of comment about Ron and his dad having a tendency towards pyromania or setting things on fire in common.

They wandered the campsite, meeting friends and acquaintances—Neville, Seamus, and Oliver Wood. Unfortunately, they also came across Malfoy. Apparently, he had prime tickets, too. Just what Harry wanted, to spend the entire quidditch match with Malfoy, trying to not kill him.

The match wasn't until the _next_ day, perhaps to give everyone time to arrive. This was when Percy, Charlie, Bill, and Sirius finally showed up. Sirius managed to look incredibly casual, as usual, which seemed to irritate those who weren't terrified of him. They might also have been reacting to his decidedly muggle apparel.

"Hey, Harry. How was your first experience with camping and portkeys, kiddo?" he said, rushing over to crush Harry into a hug. Harry didn't flinch, this time. He was surprised to find that he'd missed Sirius, even for that brief span of time. He wondered how Sirius might have reacted to Amos Diggory's bragging. Probably just as well he hadn't been there—Harry could only hold back one rash and violent individual at a time, and only he could restrain Thor. Still, it made him smile to think that Sirius would most likely have had an amount of paternal outrage at the way Diggory had been speaking.

"It was fine," Harry said, smiling back. "I don't know why you had to stay back, and miss it."

Sirius just laughed. "I have a bit of a surprise for you, is why. If you're ready, Arthur, let's go take our seats."

Only Percy seemed wary of Sirius as they wandered over to the stadium, climbing the steps upon steps leading high above the makeshift pitch. Just what happened to these temporary pitches after the World Cup was over? Did the muggle-repelling charms remain on them? Were they disassembled, and the same pitch was put together year after year at a myriad different locations? If anyone knew, it would probably be Hermione.

They made their way to the Top Box, and Harry did a double take at the unexpected glimpse of bright pink.

"Wotcher, Harry," said Tonks, sounding far too bright and chipper for the early hour. She was smiling brightly, ignoring the way the Malfoys' noses were turned up in disgust. Sirius had done some explaining, but Harry couldn't see how Tonks could possibly be related to Narcissa Malfoy—let alone Draco Malfoy.

"I did say that you'd see me again," came the hoarse voice of Remus Lupin. Harry smiled and nodded at him. "Have you had a good summer, Harry?"

"Of course," Harry said, beaming, now. It was hard not to, when he compared this last summer to every one that came before it. Sirius ran his hands through his hair in a gesture that Harry knew signified despair. Harry could feel the heat of Ron's disapproving glare without needing to turn to look.

"Professor Lupin?" asked one of the Twins, as if Remus were a mirage.

"Hello, again, Fred," said Remus, with a cordial smile. "It's always good to see a friendly face. Come in, come in, sit down, I don't think anyone will mind."

"Malfoy will," someone muttered from behind Harry. It was either Ginny or Hermione.

* * *

To Harry's lasting surprise, he didn't think of Malfoy's odious presence once during the entire game.

Perhaps that was owing to the early distraction of the Bulgarian team's mascots, a dance by a troupe of magical creatures from Bulgaria known as veelas. To all outward appearances, they were beautiful women (later on, they reverted to a more avian form, when angered, throwing fireballs and hissing; it was nasty).

All of the boys stared, as if enraptured, at that long, flowing blonde hair, each of the girls stunning in her own right, inhumanly beautiful, for human they weren't. But there was also a sort of disconnect for Harry and Ron, owing to many years of learnt self-control, perhaps, or a natural shield against the supernatural glamour of the creatures. Gods were not supposed to be vulnerable to such superficial things as inferior systems of magic. Ron gripped the seat in front of him so hard that it began to crack. He kept glancing at Hermione, but didn't seem aware of it.

Harry, feeling like Odysseus, stuffed his fingers in his ears, just in case (he was feeling _some_ sort of pull; he wasn't immune) and shoved up an occlumency wall for good measure. A glance behind them showed that Malfoy Senior had his hand clamped tight around his son's arm, and some sort of protective bubble around his head. Not the bubblehead charm…something that blocked out noise.

Harry wondered what manner of defences you were supposed to use against veelas, and turned to Professor Lupin. He very nearly started at that feral snarl across his kindly ex-professor's face. There was something inhuman, almost, about it, teeth bared, lips drawn way back, eyes narrowed, nose crinkled, a real snarl. The sort you saw on wolves.

Then he noticed the incongruity of the scene, with all at peace about him, and Remus himself clutching a hand tight in his own, not seeming aware that he was doing so, not seeming aware that that hand was even there.

Its owner sat rigidly still, as if afraid to move a muscle. She seemed to be holding her breath. There was a vague sort of smile on her lips.

Hmm.

Professor Lupin seemed distracted, but Harry slunk down in his seat and made his way back to where Tonks and Remus were sitting, Tonks still as if she had been petrified, Remus clutching her hand so hard it turned white. Dared he to interrupt?

He shoved his fingers further into his ears, and realised that no, indeed, he daren't interrupt. He waited, instead, glancing now and then at the dancing veelas, and periodically scanning the crowd, especially those in the Top Box. The Bulgarian Minister seemed to have some sort of antidote to the veelas' hypnotic effects. Fudge's eyes held a glazed look, but he managed to stay seated. Sirius seemed to be enduring through a combination of sheer willpower and occlumency, much as Harry himself. Only Bartemius Crouch seemed unaffected; even Ludo Bagman was puffing himself up more than usual. Crouch might even have looked slightly bored. Were they sure he wasn't a particularly cunning muggle?

Harry sought for every sort of distraction he could, to resist the pull. He noticed that only the boys seemed to feel that pull, and the adults seemed less affected. The girls looked slightly disgusted, or petulant, sulking at the veelas' display of skill—or at the boys' reactions. Ginny was glaring down at them, arms crossed, muttering under her breath.

The song ceased, and Harry nearly sagged with relief. Ron's grip on the chair in front of him came away with pieces of chair attached. Remus's snarl relaxed into a neutral expression, and Sirius stopped looking mildly bored (his way of showing that he was interested in the proceedings).

"Hello, Professor Lupin," Harry said, watching as Remus jerked back into awareness.

"Harry?" he asked, sounding as if perhaps _he_ were now seeing things. "What are you doing out of your seat?"

Harry's gaze flicked around the Top Box, where Malfoy Senior was still restraining his son, Sirius had relaxed, glancing around the crowd as Harry was, and accidentally catching his eyes. He leant back in his seat, head tilted almost straight up, towards the sun. He'd resumed seeming not to pay any attention. Oh, well.

"I just had a quick question," Harry reassured Professor Lupin with a smile. "I just wanted to know how you dealt with veelas."

That was a highly ambiguous statement, if ever there was one.

Activity in the Top Box was still building up for the match. If Harry wanted to receive his explanation it was either ask now, or wait until after the match. Who knew where his mind would be, then?

Professor Lupin hesitated, and seemed to realise that he was holding Tonks's hand. He set it aside gently, completely missing Tonks's disappointed pout.

"Ah, well, Harry, I'm sorry to say it's not something that can be taught. You'll develop a resistance, too, over time—teenagers are particularly susceptible because of hormones, and how new they are to the idea of romance."

He was speaking very quietly, although the match hadn't begun yet. He clearly realised that he was not the most popular individual in the Top Box. Bartemius Crouch seemed to quite deliberately overlook Remus as he shuffled back out of the stands. From what Harry had gathered, despite being one of the key creators of this event, Crouch was fond of neither quidditch nor heights. Which was reasonable, Harry supposed, but it would be tedious if he would keep coming in and out of the stands all game.

As it turned out, this was Crouch's last exit. The rest of the quidditch match was to be completely devoid of _those_ kinds of distractions.

"But how?" asked Harry, into a slightly prolonged pause.

"It's nothing you can learn," Remus protested. "It's only…sure, they look and sound angelic…you would think they were the most beautiful women in the world…but I've seen pictures of what they really look like, and more than that…." He paused, as if thinking hard about what he was going to say, or how he was going to say it. "I think something about them warns me away. I think my…lycanthropy, has a sort of… _feel_ for magical creatures. A sort of sense for them, I suppose, but not one of the usual five senses—I don't have a more developed sense of sight, or hearing, or even of smell. It's as if I have another sense that can detect magic—"

"A sort-of seventh sense," Harry interjected, in his most matter-of fact voice, taking pity on Remus foundering.

"Wh—what?" asked Remus Lupin, paling, clutching the seat upon which he sat. Tonks was staring straight ahead at the proceedings, and seemed unaware of his strange reaction.

"A seventh sense," Harry repeated, bewildered, unable to guess why Remus was behaving thus at all. He hadn't expected to provoke any sort of reaction from him. "Not hearing or sight, not taste, smell, or touch…."

"A sixth sense, then," Sirius abruptly interjected. Harry saw that Sirius's gaze was now fixed upon him, too, expression unreadable.

"Well, no," said Harry, frowning. "It's just what I'd call it—a sort of sense for magic. Even muggles have a sixth sense—some of them. It's why there are ghost stories spread across the muggle world. But that seventh sense would concern purely magical phenomena—their structure, their inherent nature…you know."

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look that Harry couldn't decipher. It was very Twins-conversing-telepathically, the sort of silent conversation that comes of knowing another person very well, usually restricted only to siblings, lovers, and close friends. He granted they fell in the last category, despite their decade at odds with one another.

He wondered just what he was missing, and why they were acting so strange. He'd expected this behaviour to stop once Sirius had been cleared, and was active in his life at long last. Instead, now both of them looked rather pale and drawn, as if trying to solve one of life's great mysteries, under penalty of death, should they fail.

Harry's brow furrowed, and he folded his arms, almost unaware that he was doing so. But he received no further clues to their strange behaviour.

"Yes, well," Remus coughed. "I suppose I'll use your term. The curse inside me recognises the inherent danger of the veela, and helps to ward away their effects. It's not something I can teach you, as you can see."

Harry found himself questioning whether most people—even most wizards, had seventh senses that they could use to analyse magic.

Maybe they didn't. Maybe that was what made Sirius and Remus suspicious, or whatever. Perhaps it was a sign of a dark wizard, or something, as parseltongue had been. It wasn't as if he'd ever mentioned this seventh sense to Ron or Hermione…perhaps it was rare, and inexplicably considered dangerous. The Wizarding World seemed to declare the randomest things dangers. Perhaps he should watch what he said more…but he liked to pretend, at least, that Sinus and Remus would accept him no matter what—as Ron would—although he had no justification for believing this, as he did with Ron.

Perhaps he should keep more of his thoughts and terms himself.

He was positively brooding by the time the match finally started, but he quickly found himself drawn in, forgetting about Professor Lupin's strange behaviour as he followed the action with his eyes (and occasionally his omnioculars, which were excellent for labeling what techniques were being used, if nothing else).

He was as surprised as anyone else at the way the match ended—and he was quite impressed with both teams, in spite of what he'd heard earlier abut the strengths and skills of each team. Krum was quite the impressive quidditch player…he wondered who was better, he or Krum, if it came right down to it….


	4. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death Eaters attack the site, and Harry puts on his worst possible mask to deal with the ensuing crisis. His questionable decision regarding Malfoy causes friction between him and Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

He awoke in the middle of the night from uneasy dreams that defied the excited, charged atmosphere that had permeated the field when he'd gone to bed. They were only dreams, and not either visions or memories—nothing like as important as what seemed to be happening outside. A charged sense of tension and fear permeated the grounds. Screams and the sounds of destruction filled the air

Harry was dressed in his Hogwarts robes, with their wand holster, in a matter of seconds, pulling them on over his oversized pyjamas despite the summer heat. Nearby, he could hear Ron begin to stir. As Harry had, he rolled out of bed, but he didn't bother with the Hogwarts robes—he had no holster, instead grabbing the unicorn-hair willow wand.

Glancing over in Harry's direction, he was visibly unsurprised to see Harry already awake and dressed. He came over to stand next to Harry, waking Fred and George as he did. Harry noticed them, groggy and slow with sleep, rising to wake the rest of the campsite. All of them seemed to know, almost instinctively, to make as little noise as possible, until they knew what the commotion outside _was_. They couldn't risk drawing the attention of an unknown opponent. They were an island of calm amidst the chaotic sea that was the grounds of the World Cup campsite.

"The girls," Ron said, with some focus. "They still do not know—"

"They might," Harry corrected him, but he gave a tight smile. "We should leave the campsite. I am better at not being noticed than you. I will retrieve Hermione and Ginny. We'll head into the woods—we'll be harder to find, there."

Ron gave a tight nod of understanding. And Harry slipped silently out of the tent, as Ron went to find his Dad, and older brothers. Sort-of older brothers. Whatever.

He checked for any sort of magic that would hinder his entry into the girls' tent, thinking of Hogwarts's protected stairs leading to the girls dorms. He found none, and slipped silently inside. Ginny was wide-awake, already, and in the process of waking Hermione.

She noticed the slight noise he made as he entered, which was impressive in itself, and whirled to face him, wand pointed in his direction. She saw who it was, and her eyes widened, grip on her wand slackening as her hand began to shake. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh—oh, Harry! You heard…."

"I heard," Harry agreed, left hand in his pocket. "I don't know what's going on, however. Shall we go? Ron promised to meet us further out, in the forest…if he doesn't catch up first; it is some distance."

Hermione fumbled for her dragon-heartstring-and-vine wand, and once her hand made contact with it, seemed much more awake.

"It sounds awful," she said, after a moment, face ashen. "Are you sure we should be going out there?"

Harry cocked his head, listening, spreading out his seventh sense. He turned to face her, still listening hard. "…Yes. We don't know who it is, but we should go while they're still distant. We don't know what they'll do if they find us. But judging by the screams…I'd rather not be here when they arrive."

Ginny shuddered, hugging herself as if for warmth.

Hermione was equally wide-awake, now, and ready to turn insensate with panic. He frowned at her. "Ginny, can you ensure that Hermione keeps moving?" he asked, and reached for Hermione's arm. She jerked it away from him, scowling.

"I won't freeze up, Harry," she said, eyes narrowed. She looked much as she had during the earlier discussion of house-elf rights. Sure, Harry pitied Winky, but he also understood that society tended to be built in pyramidal structures. House-elves were at the bottom, which made them sort-of building blocks for wizarding society…although, only the rich had them. Why?

It had been a long discussion, and Hermione had been at the verge of tears at the end, before she'd stormed off. Ron had no idea what her problem was; Harry understood, but recognised that he knew too little of wizarding society to take a side: was Dobby an anomaly, and house-elves were genuinely happy being mistreated, as long as they could serve? They weren't human, and he knew full well how dangerous it was to ascribe human mentalities onto even humanoid beings. But then, maybe Dobby was only anomalous in that he'd somehow avoided what Hermione had called house-elf "brainwashing". The entire conversation had been one he'd tried to edge out of, only for Hermione to keep dragging him back in. That she was fixing him with that same glare, now, did not bode well.

He decided to keep a close eye on her, but take his chances. He glanced at Ginny, who shrugged. Her hair was messy and untidy as it had been during the Chamber of Secrets debacle in her first year, and for a moment, his fist clenched tight over the handle of his wand, transported back to a similar dangerous time. But he'd endured then, and he would now.

Of course, he was rather a different person, now.

He led them out of the tent, keeping a wary eye out to see if he could spot the threat. He made the amateur's mistake of not looking _up_. It was surprisingly easy to forget the casual use of levitation that wizards employed. But Hermione had a mind like a steel trap, and considered all possibilities, or just happened to look up, and spot the grotesque spectacle of the Roberts family, bobbing around, inflated like floats at a parade, held up by several beams of light. They were high up in the air. If those lights disappeared….

Harry wrenched his gaze away. Muggle-baiting. Right. Well, that was Death Eater mentality—although not only they, sadly. Still…the screams, the panic….

He glanced at Hermione, the only muggleborn amongst them, and bit his lip. Suddenly, the forest seemed their only chance.

Ron appeared behind them, muttering something about the Twins, Percy, Bill, and Charlie helping their Dad. Sirius, Remus, and Tonks were located elsewhere in the campsite. Harry silently hoped that they were well and safe, but he'd seen each of them fight, for himself. They were probably alright…. Remus and Sirius had been in the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry thought fast, weighed the merits of using some means of concealing themselves, hiding themselves from sight. He thought first of his Dad's invisibility cloak, dismissing it right away. He thought of the Disillusionment Charm. That was…let's see, a sixth-year spell? Very complex. Probably only he and Hermione knew it. And he knew that they didn't want to hide. Not really. Invisibility and semi-visibility were mixed blessings in such a situation. The purpose of invisibility was to make you harder to see, and therefore more difficult to notice, or to find. The problem was that they _did_ want to be found—it was only the men torturing muggles that they didn't want to notice them. They needed to rendezvous with Fred and George, or Bill and Charlie, or Mr. Weasley, at some point.

But Hermione…if Malfoy had done them one favour, it was to let them know that it wasn't enough for purebloods that someone was a wizard or a witch—they had to be halfblood, at the very least. Hermione was a muggleborn. There was a possibility, however slight, that they might even attempt to harm her. He bit his lip, and turned to her, as Ron and Ginny pulled ahead.

"Hermione, if you know the Disillusionment Charm—and I'm sure you do, if _I_ know it—I think you should use it. As long as you stay close, you should be fine. It's safer than an invisibility cloak, when we're not trying to hide…."

Hermione frowned at him, and seemed to be setting herself up to argue with him, but he grabbed hold of her upper arm, and tugged her towards Ron and Ginny. He remembered that she was the only non-"athlete" of their group. While Ron and even Ginny could keep up with Harry, Hermione would need some help—most of her muscles were dedicated to lugging around heavy textbooks, power and not speed, arms and back, not legs. He ignored her protests, and dragged her to catch up with Ron and Ginny.

She glared at him, and refused to cast the charm. They could all three of them be quite stubborn, even to their own detriment, he mused. He cast the spell on her, instead, and she glared at him. Ron looked between the two of them, clearly at a loss as to the nature of their conflict, which, to be fair, so was Harry. He shrugged.

"Shall we move on, then?" he asked, and Ron blinked, looking slightly alarmed. Oh. Well, that tone of voice sometimes came in useful, but he had probably been better off when he kept his two lives rigidly separated.

The four of them had only made it a short ways before they came across a girl with long brown hair, in tears. Harry noted the sheer, delicate-looking fabric she wore, much unsuitable for traveling through woods. It would be torn to shreds within minutes—that was, unless it were made of something much stronger than it looked. In wizarding society, that was more likely than not.

" _Where is Madame Maxime? We have lost her…_ " she asked, in rapid French. She reached out, clutching at them with her hands outstretched. Harry blinked, several times, surprised that he could understand her.

Then he sighed. It probably made sense that at home they'd had to learn whatever language was the _lingua franca_ on Midgard—on Earth—at any given point of time. He'd missed Greek, and Latin, but French? English? He and Thor both must know those. Not a missing memory, rather knowledge, compressed, unaccessed until now. How frustrating, to know things without knowing that you knew them. He was almost inclined to sulk.

" _Who?_ " he asked, his French managing to _sound_ stilted and rusty, even in that single syllable. He almost shook his head, almost cleared his throat, as if either of those would help. Ron glanced at him, and then glanced away. Hermione scowled at him—or he thought that she did, knowing her. She was still disillusioned, and that made it a bit difficult to tell facial expressions. Ginny's was much easier to read: she looked stumped, and utterly lost. She was probably the only one there who didn't understand _any_ French.

" _That's impossible!_ " the girl said. " _How can one not know his headmistress?_ Ah!" She glanced at Harry's Hogwarts robes in the light of the gibbous moon. " _Hogwarts_."

Harry glanced back at the excitement behind them. "Well, yes," he said, switching to English, following her lead without paying attention to what he was doing, glancing back at the floating family. Were they headed this way? He was almost sure that they were. He turned back to face her. "Is that a problem?"

"You can't help me find our headmistress if you don't know who she is," the girl said, tilting her head back and assuming a rather haughty pose. "You had best move along. I'll look on my own."

She marched off, parallel to the border of the forest. Well, at least she was moving away from the Death Eaters, or whoever was running the "show" here.

" _Beauxbatons_ ," said Hermione, some of her spirit returning to her at the reminder that she could rub her superior knowledge banks in their faces. She led the way, now, towards the woods. They were almost there. "A school on the continent. No one knows where, of course…just as no one knows where Durmstrang or Hogwarts are…."

"Showing off even outside of school, Granger?" asked a familiar drawl, and the group of four turned as one. Someone groaned in frustration. He thought it was Ginny.

Malfoy stood leaning against a tree at the forest's edge, arms folded, head tilted back to watch the muggles floating in the air, with a satisfied smirk. Then he glanced down at them. "Running for cover, are you? Smart. You don't want your mudblood friend to be found here. Not if you don't want her showing her underwear to the world like that muggle woman." His grin was something between predatory and just plain sadistic, and seemed to be full of sharp teeth. There was probably a spell to accomplish just that.

Malfoy seemed in his element, cool and poised, secure in the knowledge that, as he was a pureblood, and his father was a Death Eater, he was safe from anyone making sport of muggles.

"And how do you know that they aren't just levitating anyone who can't defend themselves—like the underage?" asked Harry, cocking his head. "Is your father perhaps down there, wearing a mask and levitating innocent muggles for sport?"

Malfoy's grin widened. "Well, if he were, I'd hardly tell _you_ , would I, Potter?" he asked, knowing he had the upper hand. "If I were you, I'd tell Granger to run, and keep her bushy-haired head down. Anyone with any knowledge can spot a mudblood from a mile off—"

"I would have greater care how I spoke of her, if I were you," Ron growled, rounding on Malfoy, plans to take refuge momentarily forgotten. Harry sighed, and facepalmed. Sometimes, rolling your eyes was just not enough. He narrowed his eyes, directing his glare at Malfoy, who deserved it more.

"Hermione is a witch," he said. "They have no cause to torment her. And if they do…we all know who would be responsible. The only reason that they would come after her would be if you told them where she is…after all, she _is_ hiding."

Hermione did not quite have the nerve to glare at him for this comment.

"You're an evil, nasty little—" Ginny began, but Malfoy cut her off as if she hadn't spoken.

"Just consider it my revenge for stealing my wand, again. I didn't provoke _you_ , this time," he said. Harry paused, cocking his head to the side.

"… _Again_?" he repeated, glancing over at Ron to try to see if he'd taken the same meaning. "Malfoy, I haven't said two words, nor come within five steps of you. I assumed the match was neutral territory, y'know…not about to try stealing your wand, unless you threaten us, as you just did…."

"Don't lie to me, Potter! I had it in the Top Box, and now it's missing! Who _else_ would have taken it, hmm?"

"Don't make so much noise," Ginny said, eyes wide and wild, as she scanned the grounds. The levitating muggles were coming closer.

"Malfoy, I didn't steal your wand. If you misplaced it, I can hardly be faulted, and either way, _Hermione_ doesn't deserve to suffer. Keep silent, let them pass, and I will help you look for it."

He held out a hand, as if offering something physical. Sirius, Remus, and Tonks were out there, perhaps looking for them. With Ron staying with Hermione and Ginny, they were more than sufficiently protected. If this were a trap, he could hold his own against Malfoy, and he still had the cloak.

"A likely story," Malfoy said, with his trademark sneer. "I suppose you gave it to one of them. Well, I won't—"

"You refuse my offer?" asked Harry, voice very low, painfully aware of how little time they had. He tilted his head to the side. Malfoy was alone and defenceless, but he needed no defence, unlike Hermione. He had all but confessed that his father was one of the masked men puppeteering (he shuddered at the thought). They didn't have time for this nonsense. It was worse than first year, the night they'd broken into the Forbidden Corridor.

Ignoring whatever aborted motions Ron and Ginny were making, whatever their intentions were in his direction, Harry pointed at Malfoy, and said, " _stupefy_!"

"Harry!" Hermione scolded him, immediately. "He doesn't have any defences, and you just—"

"He doesn't need any, but he could have told the Death Eaters where we were. He's better off out cold. Besides: it's not murder if it's Malfoy," Harry said, coldly. He marched off for the forest, with Ron following close behind, trying to head him off.

Hermione lagged behind, uncertain as to whether they should _really_ leave Malfoy alone, knowing Harry too well to trust his judgement, at least not where Malfoy was concerned.

"Hermione is right. We cannot merely leave Malfoy to fend for himself," Ron protested, reaching out to grab hold of Harry's forearm, forcing him to stop. Going was slower through these trees, anyway. Harry hadn't made it far. Harry tried to dislodge the hand, but Ron had a strong grip, of course. That was most unfair.

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Hermione knows the countercurse, if she is _that_ concerned," he snapped. "Are you not upset that he threatened her?" he demanded, anger thick in his words.

Ron bowed his head, and let go. "I would prefer that you not do something that you would later regret."

Harry took the opportunity to forge ahead, anger still making his thoughts churn like whitewater rapids. It was not a smart course of action, but the knowledge of this fact only made him angrier. He even felt like kicking or hitting something.

Ginny fell behind, what with how she was human, and all, with no divine background of any kind. He was, if barely, aware of her calling out for him to slow down, as she tried to avoid grasping branches. He did not slow until Ron's hand landed hard on his shoulder, and turned him around to face him.

He could feel a reproach coming, and his conscience twinged—he knew how important it was that they not become separated, and they'd lost Ginny and Hermione both. They would have to backtrack.

"I'm sorry, Ron," he said, bowing his head, looking down at the ground before Ron could scold him. "I shouldn't have let my anger get the best of me—you would think I would know better, with you as an example, but I—"

"You have told me often of the dangers of impulsive action, Brother," Ron said, but his stance was more relaxed now, less aggressive. "We are, perhaps, all rather tenser than we should be,"

Harry straightened up, left arm spread. He'd wondered, occasionally, how it would feel. He was underwhelmed. If he experienced some great sort of metamorphosis, it was lost under his general tight focus on the moment. But he had enough to spare to shoot Ron a rather cold smile.

"And _you_ clearly do not know the Rules of Invocation. They are simple. I will have to teach you sometime…strange, I wondered how it would feel. I confess myself underwhelmed. Another side effect of the dementors, no doubt."

"What are you—?" Ron—Thor—began, but Harry shot him a glare.

"Silence is the order of the hour. Especially for _you_ ," he said, glancing through the trees. "Wait _here_."

It was not usual behaviour for him to enact such a plan, or to go off on his own during one of their inevitable excursions into danger. He knew that, and he was sure Ron must be confused, and have no idea what was going on, what he'd said, what he'd done. That undercurrent of emotion, whatever it was, that underlay Harry's actions, was in no way attached to recent events.

Mother's armour hadn't formed. He hadn't had the opportunity to use it for over a year. That was an odd thought, and likely did not bode well for the coming year. How long could he escape the threats that necessitated its use? Last year was a reprieve, but reprieves never lasted. Discontent, anxiety towards threats in two theatres, too many fronts, perhaps ate away at his tolerance.

Ron did not deserve his ire. _Thor_ did not deserve his ire. But he received it, as the only one present strong enough to take it.

"Have you found Hermione?" he whispered to Ginny, as he finally came across her, again. If she noticed anything strange about his behaviour, she doubtless chalked it up to his usual unpredictability. Ginny was very pale, but hearing his voice, red rushed into her face.

" _You_! If anything has happened to her, it's your fault! I—"

He clapped a hand over her mouth, reluctant to use more magic than he had to. The Ministry being who they were, he didn't trust them not to lay him out for breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Even if he _was_ the "Boy-Who-Lived".

"Shh! The idea is _not_ to draw their attention," he said, staring her down. Outwardly, he probably seemed much calmer than usual. His stance was deliberately casual and relaxed. He'd seen Sirius adopt the same casual wariness, and was fairly sure that Ron had noticed some sort of commonality in their behaviour. It was because of their similar backgrounds. The Blacks were practically royalty, in the eyes of Wizarding Britain, and Harry….

He sighed. He withdrew his hand, as if Ginny had needed the reminder, and now that she'd been told to, she would behave.

She should have been suspicious, when he hadn't flinched at her raised voice, in an already tense situation.

"You left Hermione behind, there! How are we going to find her?"

At least she was keeping her voice down.

"Stay here," he ordered her, affecting not to notice the way her eyes narrowed at being _ordered_. "I shall look for her." He gave her an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Confusion replaced her anger. She uncrossed her arms, rubbing at them as if folding them had bruised them, or something. Her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and he turned to stare at her. He would not have been surprised if she'd recoiled at his expression, but she alone among them had suffered anything like what he had. " _He has given us something in common_ ", he remembered telling her, an island in the midst of his sea of denial in second year. He gave her a tight, quite insincere, smile.

"I'm fine," he said. She narrowed her eyes in response.

"No, you aren't. You listen to me—"

Reminding himself of the end of first year for the second time in less than an hour, he slipped away as she was speaking to him. He needed light. It would serve as a beacon for Hermione, help her to find him, and help distort the light around her, disrupting the spell slightly.

" _Lumos_ ," he whispered, funneling the _other_ magic into the spell to strengthen it. He made for where he thought that they'd left Malfoy.

"You _jerk_ ," cried a voice. "I can't believe you left me behind. What were you thinking?"

"Hush, Hermione," he said. His voice was very level, and difficult to hear over the sound of her tirade. She had to cut herself off to hear him. "Follow me. I'll lead you back."

He held out a hand, but she stared at it in overt suspicion.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?" she demanded. She was quite difficult to see, but he was sure that her eyes were narrowed at him. He sighed.

"I _am_ Harry Potter," he said, still in that too-quiet voice. "And I think that you're overreacting a bit. And yes, I left you behind, but I came back for you as soon as I calmed down."

He was not calm. He might sound calm, but he was far from it. But Hermione seemed not to realise this. She didn't see the hard set to his face, the anger that doubtless still sparked in his eyes, belying that external façade of calm.

He reached out, and took hold of her arm, dragging her away, deeper into the forest, before she could formulate a response. A _silencio_ or two would not go amiss, he thought to himself, as he canceled the light-projecting spell. Hermione stumbled along behind him, no match for his pace, but he ignored any requests that he slow down.

"What has gotten into you?" she snapped, as they finally stopped beside Ginny.

"Now is not the time, Hermione," he said, running his left hand, with which he'd been grasping her arm, through his hair. "And you should keep your voice down."

"How can you be so _calm_?" she snapped. "And…and since _when_ are you such a task-driver? Didn't you hear me say I couldn't keep up with you? Are you listening to me, Harry?"

" _Silencio_ ," he said, pointing at Hermione. She glared at him, but she hadn't studied non-verbal magic, which meant that she couldn't cast any spells to undo her silencing. Now she would know to study it, he mused.

Ginny gasped, eyes wide. "What is _wrong_ with you? Why did you just—?"

"Good. Everyone is accounted for," said Ron, appearing as if from nowhere. Harry turned to face him.

"Something's wrong with Harry," said Ginny, instantly. "You have to—"

"Nothing is wrong with me," Harry said, cutting her off. "We should leave. I had to use a _lumos_ spell to find Hermione—"

"—and then you _silenced_ her—" interjected Ginny.

"—which may have called attention to our whereabouts. I could hope that it would be Sirius, Remus, Tonks, or your family who would find us, but since when have we ever been that lucky?" he asked, with a bitter, helpless laugh.

Ron stared at him for a moment, and then looked from Harry to the girls, and back, with something that might have been dawning realisation…or horror.

Or both.

"You—"

"Get down!" Harry snapped, sending out a wave of defensive magic to cancel whatever his seventh sense was warning him was coming. It barely had time to warn him that magic was gathering nearby before its release. Not enough time for Harry's spell—or his words—to make a difference. And if his seventh sense _hadn't_ been wide open, he wouldn't have known at all. He frowned.

Thankfully, the spell was not an attack.

" _Morsmordre!_ " cried an unfamiliar, deep voice. All that happened was that the Dark Mark, which before he'd seen only in textbooks, shot into the sky. His gaze whipped to the source, homing in on the point from which he'd felt the magic build. But before he could do anything—

" _Stupefy_!" cried a voice, and the four of them, already on edge, ducked, and the spell didn't hit any of them. There was a sharp expulsion of air from the source of the spell, which was a relief, but—

"Stay where you are! Don't move!" cried the voice of Bartemius Crouch.

But, of course, they'd be in trouble, anyway.

At least they weren't in danger, anymore.


	5. The Rules of Invocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry explains how the rules he made up way back when work, to Ron, who has no reason to know about them (but Harry acts as if he should, anyway).

It took over half an hour to get things straightened out again. Bartemius Crouch was alarming, eyes practically popping from his sockets; in his muggle three-piece suit, he reminded Harry too much of Uncle Vernon. He was alarming, and the fact that he was alarmed just fed that undercurrent of discontent. But Harry kept calm, as best he could.

Crouch slowed the investigation down several times, going off on this or that tangent, insisting upon searching the forest again even after they'd found Winky in the grass, where Hermione had pointed her out. But Diggory had been the one to accuse Hermione of casting the Mark, even though she was both silenced and a muggleborn. The whole thing was a mess.

Ginny had taken the opportunity to pipe up, before anyone else could say anything, about how Harry had silenced Hermione, and the adults had canceled Harry's disillusionment and silencing charms. Well, at least they were safe now. He supposed that there was no true further need for them.

Harry was nevertheless almost inclined to sulk. He stood to the side, not looking at anyone, until the inevitable happened, and _he_ was accused of having cast the Mark. Then, he looked up at his accuser (Diggory again, of course) through his bangs. He should have seen it coming. He must give off villain vibes, still, if there were such things. He glanced over at Ron, lifting his head as a sign that he held Ron in greater esteem than Crouch and Diggory combined. Ron's expression was tight with his concern for Harry.

Sirius, Tonks, and Remus arrived at about that point, Tonks clutching her arms, which were streaked with several thin lines of red. "It's alright," she said, beaming 'round the clearing before anyone could ask. "These tress are just vicious, is all."

She underscored her point by losing her balance, windmilling around, and getting snagged a few times by the trees a good five feet from where she'd landed.

"You okay, kids? Harry?" asked Sirius, both hands out of his pockets—he was making no attempt to be casual—as he looked them all over. Harry bowed his head, and looked away.

Harry had no good answer for him. He was fairly sure that all three of his closest friends were currently not-on-speaking-terms with him, but at least he still had Sirius, and Remus.

"There must be some sort of mistake, here," Remus said, calmly surveying the scene. He noted Winky, sobbing still at Crouch's threat of clothes, the two adults still glancing at Harry and company as if expecting to be attacked.

With Remus, Sirius, and the actual auror, Tonks, on the scene, they didn't dare to do anything.

"How did you find us?" asked Ginny. Harry turned to stare at her. "What? You know you're his first priority. He came right _here_ ; he knew you were here, somehow."

Harry blinked. She might well have a point. Sirius had sworn not to leave him alone in harm's way, again. He might well have just known where Harry was.

Sirius gave a casual shrug "I thought something seemed different this way," he said. "And Remus agreed. Hadn't expected the Dark Mark to show up. That must mean that the Death Eaters are nearby…."

"And why are you not pursuing them, Auror Tonks?" Crouch demanded, turning to her. It took Harry a moment to remember that Tonks was not, in fact, Tonks's given name.

"I'm not on-duty, and besides that, the Death Eaters all scattered when they saw the Mark…it's as if it scared them off."

"Well, regardless of the intentions of the caster, we should treat him as a Death Eater, and a priority to find," said Crouch. "And you should get to work rounding up those Death Eaters."

"They'll have gone to ground by now," Sirius spat. "Why don't we concentrate on getting the kids to safety, if that's okay with you?"

Without waiting for a response, he pushed through the square to Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione.

"They are witnesses, and will need to be thoroughly interrogated—"

"Ah, shove it," said Sirius, rounding on Crouch. "As if _you_ care about interrogating witnesses, or law."

There was a sudden thick tension in the clearing.

"Come on, kids…let's get you back to your campsite. I'll stay with you. See what happens if I let you out of my sight for a few hours! I hadn't realised that the Ministry is still so inept!"

He shot another dagger glare at Crouch.

"I'll settle things here, and find my kids; we'll meet up back at the campsite," said Arthur Weasley, sounding haggard and worn.

Sirius gave him a curt nod, his eyes still flinty and sparking, until he turned back to the four sort-of underage sort-of wizards.

"Remus? Tonks?" he called over his shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do to round up the Death Eaters," said Tonks, her voice devoid of its usual energy.

"I'll help you bring the kids back," said Remus, who sounded even more tired, but his eyes were alert, and his voice was steady.

Sirius didn't wait to receive permission from Crouch, instead giving the four kids a nod, and leading them away from the scene of the crime.

And he _did_ spend the night in the "crowded" boys tent.

* * *

In the days that followed, there'd been little time to talk in private, but Harry had apologised for his behaviour to both Hermione and Ginny. They'd both gradually thawed towards him, again, Ginny faster than Hermione. She both understood things about him that Hermione likely never would, and owed him, besides. Furthermore, she hadn't received the worst of his actions. Her anger was for Hermione's benefit.

Ron managed to hold onto his knowledge of what Harry had said through all this time—the trip to Diagon Alley; the fussing of Mrs. Weasley; the long hours Arthur Weasley put in after the attack, which had the entire household tense; the frequent disappearances of Sirius to help with trying to find any of the Death Eaters, who had, of course, gone to ground, and were lying low. Sirius seemed to spend as much time as he could with Harry, as if to make up for twice having failed him, not being there when Harry needed him. All in all, they hardly had a moment to themselves.

Still, as time passed, things gradually cooled down, and Arthur Weasley could spend more time at home with the children who still were living at The Burrow: Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron. He was tired and harassed, but he tried to put his best face on things. Mrs. Weasley seemed to realise that Death Eaters were not about to come knocking, and stopped checking her clock every hour. Sirius let Harry out of his sight for entire half-hour spans of time. People were beginning to come back to their senses.

This was when Ron took the opportunity to take Harry aside, to speak to him in private in the garden, which was rather larger than that of Number Four, but which Harry had no responsibility of tending, and therefore appreciated far more.

"What are the Rules of Invocation, Brother?" he asked, staring out across the garden, which was filling with gnomes, of course. Harry's head snapped up and over to him.

"Where have you heard that term?" he demanded, standing up from where he _had_ been sitting on a rock. Ron—Thor—did not seem to understand why Harry would suddenly be on edge.

"You used that term yourself, during the attack," he said, frowning. "Do you not remember?"

Harry thought back to that night, how suddenly he'd switched from contrition—the sentiment of the moment—to a more long-term wariness, underscored with…something.

"I remember," he said, voice quieter than it needed to be. Were Ron human, he would need to strain to hear Harry. Oh, well.

He paused to gather his thoughts, and Thor continued, "You told me that you would inform me as to what these…'rules of invocation' were, at a later date."

"They are little more than an excuse for my behaviour during the attack," Harry said, with a grim smile. "'What's in a name?' Shakespeare's Juliet asked. 'That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet'. But roses are inanimate objects…biology tells us that plants are living organisms, but that does not change the fact that plants are devoid of consciousness and identity. They are only what we thinking beings name them."

Thor, to his credit, did not ask what relevance this had to the discussion at hand. He waited. Harry knew that he could outwait Thor, but that was not the point of this discussion. In actual point of fact, they should have had this conversation before, but so much had happened after the Big Secret came into the open. He thought he could not be blamed if such had slipped his mind. He sat back down, clasping his hands before him, thinking of what to say.

"Dumbledore makes the same mistake. He acts as if 'Riddle' and 'Voldemort' and 'You-Know-Who' are all names with the same substance and meaning. But they are not. Riddle needed to die before 'Voldemort' could be born, and 'You-Know-Who' is the culmination of his ascent. Perhaps all villains undergo some similar process: the death of the old to make way for the new. By calling him 'Riddle', we make note of the fact that he is, despite what he has done, only a human, only a mortal man. They are shades of meaning to the same person. Shades of identity. But he is hardly alone in that respect."

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. The sun was warm on his face; it was the middle of summer, and England had yet to hide itself under a blanket of clouds this week. It probably would continue for the rest of the week. Smart people were finding activities that would help them to cool down, or staying indoors. Only idiots stayed out in a garden in this weather. It gave him further hope that they would not be overheard; even the Twins and Ginny were staying indoors, out of the heat.

"Everyone has such shades to their identity—even you. The man called 'son' is not the same man as the one called 'brother', is not the same man as the one called 'friend', is not the same as the one called 'teacher'. They might refer to the same individual, but social context brings out different shades of personality in the same person. And the man who is called 'daddy' is different from the one called 'dad' is different from the one named 'father'. Would anyone ever be able to bring themselves to call your father ' _Dad_ '? No. He is too remote, too distinct, too aloof, and those names are too soft."

"He is your father, too," Thor had to interject. In other circumstances, Harry might have argued with him, but he'd made his point clear, he thought.

"I know your opinion of the matter. But that is not the point of this discussion. What is relevant is that no one could call him by such a soft name without mocking him. He is not soft. Mother might…no, she too is remote, distant, if less. It does not suit her.

"Even amongst families, a nickname is different from a full name. Do you suppose that Bill is the same when he is called William? And what of Fred? Ginny? Charlie? Percy? Such diminutive names evoke that same mildness, affection, closeness, to a lesser degree."

Thor was growing impatient. Harry could almost _feel_ it, as if it were a rise in temperature in their immediate area. Perhaps he'd laid enough background for his explanation. He opened his eyes, casting a dismissive glance at Thor.

"And you, Brother. Do you suppose that 'Thor' and 'Ron' refer to the exact same person?"

Thor thought of his dreams, and shifted, suddenly uneasy, perhaps even sensing the direction this conversation was headed.

"And I," said Harry, his voice softer, and smoother on account of its softness, as his explanation reached its conclusion. "I am all pieces and personalities regardless. Does it surprise you if one of them is named 'Harry', and the other 'Loki'? And is Loki not also called 'Brother', and Harry 'little brother', for he is still a child? Does it alarm you, does it surprise you, if all you need do to speak with one or the other is to change your form of address? I no longer have my denial to shield me, after all."

Thor took a moment to understand, to wade through all of the exposition to find the point. Harry himself thought he had probably intended just that effect. Thor's expression was unreadable. He took a step forward.

He didn't comment on how disturbing it was to hear Harry speak of himself in the third person. This time.

" _Loki_?" he asked. "Have I made you into what you are not?"

"Shades of identity. Different values of the same colour. I could fight it off—a man always has a choice whether or not to don the mask society tries to force upon him—but it is always easier to 'go with the flow'. I found a place between that part of my soul that serves as a bulwark against…against _Thanos_ , and who I usually am. And now, you know to be cautious in how you address me. You would not wish to invoke your brother, Loki, so casually. Does he ever appear without collateral damage?"

He smiled, but it was a cold, bitter smile. He spread his hands, but it was not a welcoming gesture, as it might be expected to be in other circumstances. Thor hesitated, but, gryffindor that he was, pushed forwards through the grass until he met Harry's rock. Harry frowned, letting his arms fall, trying to puzzle him out. Thor gave no ground in this matter.

"You are my brother, regardless of which name you answer to," he said. "It is little matter for me. It troubles only you."

"Ginny and Hermione seemed upset with my behaviour," Harry said, with false levity that had Thor frowning. "I was not _nice_."

"They will accustom themselves to your behaviour," Thor promised. "They will understand, in time. Hermione deserves to know."

"And Ginny deserves to know your secret," Harry said, voice almost a whisper. "Will you tell them now, then?"

The obvious answer was 'yes', but the right choice was too difficult to make at this point in time. He needed time.

As he had needed time to confront Harry…and see how that had turned out! And yet, despite this argument, still he hesitated.

"You are too afraid to lose them, then?" asked Harry, still with that cold smile, looking down at Thor. It grated at him. If he hit the rock, it might shatter, but Mum would be most displeased. She liked the aesthetic it provided. He restrained himself.

"Well, never fear," said Harry, holding out a hand for him. "You will always have _me_. Cold comfort though I suppose that is, for you."

It was not cold comfort at all. It was what he had gone back in time for, that and the chance to save his mother's and brother's lives.

"Will you promise that?" asked Thor, for once feeling like a teenager—or how he supposed a teenager ought to feel. Almost, it was like stepping back in time.

Harry said nothing, but stayed completely still. He waited. They both knew that Harry could outwait him. He reached for Harry's hand, with some trepidation, and Harry pulled him up, with little visible effort. The rock was not so very high that it afforded a better vantage than the ground—only a foot or so higher, where he now stood, than where he had been. There was no danger, if either of them lost their footing and fell.

"You sacrificed quite a bit for me," Harry—Loki—mused. "I suppose I might be more grateful. You have sworn to help me against Thanos. Then, let us make common cause, and no longer be at odds. I have tired of that, anyway. What say you?"

"I have sworn to be your sole sentinel, if you require it of me. And I will never be your enemy," Thor replied, hunting down elusive words. He was no wordmaster, and he knew he often said the wrong things. But he added, anyway, "I once swore an oath."

Loki's face, when Thor looked, was blank. "I remember," he said, and his voice was flat. Then, he sighed. "As did I. And I have failed to live up to my part of the bargain. I will do better, from now on. Very well, I will promise that I will help you. You are, after all, my brother."

For a moment, his hand met Thor's shoulder. Then, Harry pushed off against him, off the rock, and was gone.

Dramatic, as usual. And yet, the familiarity of it, the memories it revived for him, made Thor smile, despite himself. Family was family. Tony had never had siblings; he could not be expected to understand.

* * *

It was time to return to Hogwarts before any of them were prepared. Superficially, they were ready—they had all of their supplies, from the mysterious new requirement of dress robes, to the familiar textbooks; their homework had been finished months ago, and everyone had packed as much as they could the night before. But, somehow, the Quidditch World Cup had made the break seem shorter than it was. No one felt _ready_ for school to resume. Even Hermione was in a state, wandering the house, muttering to herself. Sirius made the mistake of accusing her of behaving just like the Black family house-elf, Kreacher, and was drawn into a tirade regarding house-elf rights. There was little forewarning; he sat in shock for several seconds.

"Now, Hermione, you haven't even _met_ Kreacher. I'm all for house-elf rights, but Kreacher is just…Kreacher. Follower of my parents' disgusting pure-blood politics, and all. Worships my mad cousin Bellatrix, even. Real piece of work, that woman was, _before_ she went to Azkaban. I shudder to think of what she might have become, in the interim. Rumour has it that although she married Lestrange, she was _in love with_ Voldemort. Just for a sample of her particular brand of crazy. Kreacher'd probably die, if doing that would advance Voldemort's agenda. His life's ambition is to have his head whacked off and mounted on the hallway wall. House-elves are like human beings, Hermione. Some of them want one thing, others want another, and some are so crazy they're a danger to themselves and others. That's Kreacher."

He was very firm with her, but somehow also civil. It was a difficult dance. Hermione was passionate about all of her endeavours, and this house-elf rights thing was shaping into a crusade. No one wanted any part of it, with the possible exception of Sirius. Harry felt that he didn't understand wizarding society enough to take part, and was leary of anthropomorphising anything that wasn't human, anyway. Ron, perhaps thinking that he wouldn't be part of this world long enough to make a real difference, or perhaps just following Harry's lead (who knew?) bowed out of the discussion. Hermione was ready to hiss sparks. She was reminding everyone of her cat, if much prettier and less violent.

Hermione might be on the verge of hysterics, but _everyone_ was pacified, for different reasons, by the approaching school year. Sirius took Harry aside, and shoved a bubblewrapped package into his hands.

Harry glanced down at it, and then glanced back up, through his bangs, at Sirius. There was an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Two-way mirrors," Sirius said, giving a succinct explanation. "Your dad and I used to use them to talk to each other when we had separate detentions. If you need me for anything, just say my name into the glass, see. I'll keep it on me at all times…well, maybe not when I'm taking a shower, eh, kiddo? Keep it with you. Call me if you need advice, or help—anything. I don't want you to ever feel you've got no other choice—that you have no one to turn to."

He bent down to give Harry a hug, and a kiss on the forehead, just as if he were Harry's real dad, or something. It made Harry realise, for the first time, that Sirius was like Thor in that respect also: he was such the quintessential masculine man that he could afford to be more in touch with his feminine side, doing things people usually gave men strange looks for doing. It was an odd realisation.

"Anytime, kiddo. I mean it," Sirius said again.

Harry just stared, a bit lost. He had no background to know how to respond.


	6. This Year's Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Malfoy have their usual confrontation on the train, the new Defence Professor shows his face, and Ron and Harry train with weapons in the Room of Requirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **author's note:** Thanks to an anonymous reviewer, I remember why I hated editing/writing/rereading book IV so much, and come beseeching you for your advice. The problem with book IV, other than I can't write romance, is that Ginny is kind of out-of-character for the entire book (most of the book). Instead of being her usual self, she stubbornly insisted on being a less logical version of Hermione. I'm at a loss.  
> Don't worry: she should be back in character by the end of the book. Thus far, my only plausible solution is to include some more scenes with her in it, to try, at least, to explain her inconsistencies in characterisation, which do have reasons for them. Sorry, Ginny lovers!  
> ^^^ I completely forgot to add in the note I put at ff.net, here. Somehow. Anyway...:
> 
> See _end notes_ for what might be excessive citations.

This year, most unfortunately, they did not have insurance against Malfoy. No teachers were waiting in their usual compartment; they had it quite to themselves, just the three of them. Even Ginny had gone off somewhere else, with a smile and a wave at Harry.

Hermione tried to take the opportunity of the long train ride to speak with them about house-elf rights. Harry told her everything he remembered about Dobby, and then confessed,

"Hermione, I don't know anything about house-elves—and neither do you, really. Perhaps, before you try to change the world, you would learn how _they_ feel about the matter."

He had no idea how she would accomplish this, of course, but it gave him the space to change the subject. Hermione must have known that that was what he was doing, but she spoke with him about her favourite class, Arithmancy, until Ron and Harry were both nearly bored to tears. He decided that he'd chosen his electives correctly. Although….

"What about Ancient Runes?" he asked, with a sidelong glance at Ron. He should know at least a _little_ about those, right?

Hermione could go on about anything scholastic for hours. This might, however, even to help her get some of it out of her system, if that were possible.

They were interrupted by the appearance of Malfoy, come to gloat; this year would be standard fare, which meant that Harry should start peeling his eyes for the coming threat _now_.

"I assume that you found your wand," Harry said, cocking his head to the side, and studying Malfoy. He hadn't drawn, but the Malfoys would never send their young scion off without that most important tool.

Malfoy scowled at him, as if he'd said something wrong. "It has been confiscated for evidence," he said, stiffly, and, with a sigh, Harry understood.

Of course, it couldn't have happened to a better person. Malfoy must have a new wand, yet again—he'd never grow attached to any of them, at this rate. If wandlore were correct, he'd never _bond_ with any of them. This pleased Harry rather, as it meant that Malfoy's path forward was on a steep incline. The only other person to whom that still applied, now, was Neville Longbottom. Harry would have to find a way to ensure that Neville pulled ahead of Malfoy in class. He'd consider it part of his revenge against Malfoy Senior, for what he'd done to Ginny.

Malfoy cast a dismissive glance around their compartment, taking in Ron's dress robes covering the cage of the unfortunately-named owl Pigwidgeon, Sirius's compensatory gift to Ron, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione themselves. Crabbe and Goyle seemed impatient to get back to their compartment, but Malfoy acted as if he had all the time in the world. He must be a horrible friend, and not just an annoying brat to those he hated. Of course, Goyle and Crabbe were mere lackeys…did Malfoy perhaps have no friends, only followers? Was that how Slytherin worked? Perhaps Harry belonged there, after all; he did come of a friendless background, after all, on either side of the equation.

"Look, Malfoy, just come to your point and leave us in peace, alright?" Harry asked, with a put-upon sigh. He missed the reprieve third year had offered.

"I suppose you're going to enter, aren't you?" Malfoy asked, staring at him intensely. "Anything to stay in the spotlight…I'm sure you'd love the fame and glory…."

"I wasn't planning on entering," he said, which was true, as he had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. But if it were something that would put him in the spotlight, he was sure he wasn't interested. Might be this year's threat, though…. "You might be seeking for a source of fame and prestige, but I have no need of them."

"Weasley's entering, then?" he asked, considering Ron, now. Harry was almost amused. Let no one doubt _Ron's_ worth. "I suppose his family could afford the prize money, and they'd hardly miss one of their sons. Of course, it's supposed to be safer this year, all sorts of new restrictions."

Harry was definitely not entering himself. This sounded more like the annual threat by the moment. He glanced at Ron, to try to ensure his silence,

"Ron isn't entering, either. Unlike yours, his parents value his life." He gave Malfoy his pleasantest smile, and Malfoy recoiled. He got a hold of himself far too quickly.

"I was speaking to Weasley, not you, Potter," he drawled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Or do your cronies not have thoughts of their own?"

At that, Harry had to laugh. It was rare that anything Malfoy said could be considered genuinely amusing, but then, he had, as usual, no idea what he was talking about. "You'd know all about cronies, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" he asked, once he'd caught his breath. "You betray your own ignorance. _I_ am not the leader of our group. If anyone is the leader, it's Ron. But it's beneath his dignity to answer a lowlife such as you are, yourself. That odious task falls to me. You must know that Ron is the most competent fighter out of all of us. Hermione is the smartest. It falls to me to be spokesman, and bodyguard."

For a moment, he almost wandered off into his memories, but he shook it off. "If you would take your _cronies_ , and leave us be, I'm sure everyone would appreciate it—even they."

"Why, you—" Malfoy began, eyes narrowing almost to slits in his anger. Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy's typical behaviour.

"Get lost, Malfoy," said Hermione, getting to her feet. "I haven't forgotten what you said during the attack."

Oh, look. Hermione was developing common sense.

"Did you know that we're allowed to use magic on the train to Hogwarts? Do you want a demonstration of some of the jinxes I studied?"

Malfoy backed away, waving his arms. "I just dropped by to have a civil conversation with you lot. I should have known better. This isn't over, Potter!"

In other words, trying to cover his ego after it got kicked by an unexpected opponent.

"I should have slapped him, again," Hermione muttered to herself. No one contested.

* * *

For once, he didn't have to wait to learn what the latest threat was: it was something called the Triwizard Tournament. Quidditch was canceled for the year, which was just as well: Harry rather suspected that he'd need to spend most of his free time practising both forms of magic, to even survive to the end of the year. He had forgot neither prophecy. _The Dark Lord shall rise again… greater and more terrible than ever he was… And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…_

The words rang in his ears as he listened to Dumbledore's announcement. This, then, the news that Malfoy was not supposed to have, but had nevertheless owing to his father's position and influence (read: bribery). A Tournament, meant to "foster good will and understanding" amongst the three oldest, greatest wizarding schools in Europe, the very three Hermione had casually mentioned the night of the attack. A month from now, the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would arrive here at Hogwarts. The Champions would be chosen on Hallowe'en—which, all by itself, sent alarm bells ringing in his head. He made a mental note to corner Ron as soon as possible. The only thing he could do was start preparations as soon as possible.

He'd need to spend some time researching past Tournaments; if only he'd known _before_. If only he could have conferred with Mother about it, last night. And he could tell Sirius, but…. Sirius already knew that the Tournament was being held this year, doubtless. Mrs. Weasley had dropped plenty of hints about the special events happening at school this year. Everyone must have known, or everyone with any sort of connections, except for them.

His thoughts were interrupted when the double doors leading to outside burst open with a bang, and the Hall filled with the clank of wood on stone, as a stranger strode into the hall. The thunking was caused by his wooden leg colliding heavily with the floor. His mismatched eyes made even Harry uneasy. Apparently, he was their new Defence teacher. Harry was immediately inclined to be all the warier of him, given past experience. Of course, it was possible that the first two years had been anomalies, but….

So, this was the renowned Alastor Moody, Dumbledore's friend, one of the greatest aurors of the modern age. Aurors had a dangerous job, but, to Harry's understanding, they were the wizarding equivalent of police. For some reason, Harry could think of no better job to aim at. Even still, the appearance of Dumbledore's old friend was giving him second thoughts, for any of a number of reasons.

Pleasantries were exchanged between Moody and Dumbledore, which Harry ignored, introductions were given, which Harry barely heard, and then Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament, which caught and held Harry's interest. He rather thought he'd have to be more proactive this year—and not just by setting up his Foe-Glass as soon as possible, to try to scout out the incoming threats. He'd have to set to building up his magic reserves. The healing practice Mother set him to wouldn't cut it. He'd have to ask Ron for his assistance. Wasn't that how he'd built up his magic before? Sheer necessity that came of being the younger brother of the troubleseeker crown prince?

He glanced at Ron, trying to decide how long he could afford to wait, how receptive Ron would be to helping. But, who was he kidding? Anything for a fight, right? And Harry could help him to better understand magic, which he also needed…and then, too, this training would help both of them to survive Riddle's inevitable resurrection.

Tomorrow, then. For now, Harry settled for watching Moody with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Friend of Dumbledore's or not, any Defence teacher was guilty until proven innocent.

* * *

There was a certain decrease of tension throughout Gryffindor House that Harry only slowly realised came of a change in "management"—namely, that Percy had graduated last year (as had Oliver Wood, but he was only a terror to the quidditch team, and they'd won last year, anyway). Harry found that he didn't feel the need to keep watch as much as he had before, that he no longer ensured that a room was completely empty before talking about sensitive information. Having his fellow students otherwise occupied on the other side of the room was enough for him.

He was still quiet when he took Ron aside to make his request. It came in three parts, and two of them were secret—those required the Room of Requirement that he had learnt of from Sirius. On the one hand, he needed to go back over everything he and Thor had ever learnt of fighting, make it fresh in his memory—his duels with Riddle always seemed to return to such "muggle" forms of combat. He fully expected for Ron to have the upper hand in this field, but he himself knew that he had greater skill with magic, and if Thor had any sort of interest in learning the other sort of magic—and perhaps he now did—Harry could give him some guidance, at least. For the most part, however, he suspected he'd be practicing that magic, alone, in the Room of Requirement.

Wizarding magic, however, required much less secrecy. They might even drag Hermione into learning wizarding spells meant for defence and offence…and maybe occlumency. But for now…he'd stick with the most important, fundamental things.

He needed to build up his reserves. He need to practice fighting. It was inevitable, foretold…inexorable. Last year the anomaly, the only time, perhaps, that they would not have their annual clash. The words of Trelawney's prophecy loomed large over his head.

"I have a request to make of you, Brother," he said, keeping his voice low, despite his comparative lack of caution. He was sure to be looking elsewhere when Thor turned his way, doubtless at a loss—why, now that he knew the rules of invocation, would Harry call him that?

"Something troubles you," he said, and Harry frowned, wondering if he'd somehow become so transparent that even Thor could read him without fail. Or perhaps, again, it was merely another case of him underestimating him. Perhaps, he was too predictable.

"A favour. There is time you would spend at quidditch practice. I ask for something I know will not disappoint you. What I said to Malfoy is very true: you are the strongest of us. Neither Hermione nor I could hope to match you in strength. In other circumstances, this would not trouble me. But two prophecies loom before us, still, and Riddle has had over half a century to study wizarding magic—and I shall study this, too—but he knows nothing of the other—of _Asgardian_ magic." He couldn't resist checking again to ensure no one was listening. A surreptitious glance around the room confirmed that no one was nearby, and even the Twins were bent over a piece of parchment, arguing over its contents with Lee Jordan.

"More than that," he continued, turning to at last face Thor, "he does not have our training. But neither do I, when I have had no chance to practise—and no more have you. What would your father think? Mother once called you 'Asgard's quintessential youth'. Knowing you, part of your restlessness is just this—the lack of any ability to train, to prepare for combat, especially as you know it is coming. I think that it would be beneficial to both of us."

He did not want to admit that he could appreciate the challenge that came of battle, at the very least. Nor would he be bringing any weapons with him to the Room, save for his wand, of course (it would be quite the oversight to forget such, when danger was imminent, and war loomed on the horizon). He thought he was being quite open about his intentions, regardless.

Which did not stop Thor from trying to find ulterior motives. Harry sighed. He seemed to be doing much of that, of late.

"Meet me outside the Room of Requirement, tomorrow, after lunch. I think we have some spare time, then. Let us test the limits and uses of the Room of Requirement, shall we?"

Hogwarts had been built a millennium ago, by the four greatest witches and wizards of their time. They lived in a time of war, although it lay between the Norman Conquest and Viking raids (funny how the Norse kept showing up, wasn't it? Norman meaning what it meant, and the Vikings being who they were…he felt rather tangled up in the affairs of the time regardless of actual involvement). The Founders, it was agreed, were nominally Christian, but they would not have overlooked any potential defence for their school, as later generations would, on account of it being heresy, or sacrilege, or whatever name they would lay on it. They lived in a time before firearms, which meant that the muggle weapons they would have used were all different styles of familiar weapons from home. Regardless of whether the Room fabricated its materials _ex nihilo_ (doubtful), or called them from some otherspace, or elsewhere in the castle, it _could_ provide weapons.

He was confident about this argument. What remained was the limits of the Room to replicate or provide more obscure weapons. Well, they'd have to see.

See they did, as Harry had asked, in a free slot (with Hermione otherwise occupied with her favourite class). Harry only had a few days left before their first Defence class, next week. It was four days away, on the sixth of September. He was determined to have some measure of defence, if worse came to worst, against the new Defence Professor, by the time of his first class. If his motto was "CONSTANT VIGILANCE", Harry would follow that rather paranoid creed. If he weren't out to kill Harry, he might just be impressed, and Harry had his heart set on becoming an auror. Those were the best people to save the world—or even for those who strove for redemption to fix it in smaller ways.

The Room of Requirement did not disappoint. It was possible that it brought objects from even outside the castle, via some sort of spell like apparation, portkeys, and the World Opening spell. It was one of the single most impressive feats of magic he had ever seen, which was somewhat galling. The only other magical things that readily compared—that were actual works of magic—were those laid upon Thor's hammer, the World-Gates (whatever made them) and the ceiling of the Great Hall.

It did not escape his notice that two out of four of those—half—were here in Hogwarts. Of course, the Founders had worked together to create those two masterpieces. Out of respect for it, he decided against even trying to figure out how it worked by his usual recourse (opening his seventh sense, and studying the structure of the magic, itself). It deserved better.

He could tell, with his seventh sense partly open, that this space was full of what could only be described as _potential_. That was what the magic lent itself to, here. It was an ideal place for study, for learning is the process by which potential is converted into knowledge. Where it is realised, and given form. In short, the Room of Requirement was, among many other things, the ultimate classroom. If he wished to have Neville surpass Malfoy, Neville had best prepare to spend many long hours studying _here_. Not that he felt like sharing the Room, just yet.

For now, it more than fulfilled its function. The ability Sirius had shared, hiding the door, that none realise that the Room was in use, made it the most secure location to practise that he could think of. Then, too, there was the variable size indicated on the Map, enabling it to exceed its natural boundaries, occupying twice as much space as it was possible for it to occupy, given the floorplan of the rest of the seventh floor of Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement was ordinarily the size of a classroom, he thought he understood. Classrooms were not that big in Hogwarts. But it could expand to several times that size, as needed. The roof needed to be higher than it would ordinarily be possible at Hogwarts; the Room accommodated this. There was a certain impossibility to the structure of the Room, that might have given even him a headache to try to figure out.

"A wall of weapons," he said, instead, turning to the left-hand wall. "How clichéd."

"It is very convenient," said Thor, beaming, as if the two words were synonyms. …Come to think of it, _did_ he know the meaning of the word?

Harry shook his head, and stared at the wall, looking for something that would be about the same size and weight as the Sword of Gryffindor. This was more difficult than it sounded, because the Sword of Gryffindor was goblin-make, so who knew what it was made of, and what sort of spells were built into it? Some of these weapons might have the same problem, of course…there was no real way to know; even his seventh sense might let him down, with such a vast amount of data before it. Operating by sight alone was risky, but his best chance.

Ron seemed puzzled by his choice, but Harry shrugged. He was not about to admit that he'd use the first excuse he got to acquire permission from Dumbledore to use the Sword of Gryffindor, anymore than he was about to admit that the Sword was still in his possession, and therefore the go-to weapon, when he'd yet to figure out how that part of him serving as his final defence against Thanos (or at least, it had had that function years ago) had managed to make weapons out of _nothing_. That was another trick to ponder, when he had the time. What was school to him, next to the weight of the prophecy?

Priorities, priorities. Past experience told him that his life was liable to be in jeopardy several times this year. He was going to prioritise defending himself.

"Just pick something," he said, with a sigh.

Because he'd picked a sword, Thor did the same. That was Harry's explanation for why Thor _lost_. Although, of course, there were also the facts that he wasn't used, yet, to fighting as a mortal (semi-mortal?), and the fact that Harry had been the only one to fight for his life in the past three years. Still….

He remembered a time before, victory where he'd expected only defeat. Onlookers he'd persuaded that they had misread the situation. And he could believe it then; he could believe it now.

"I suppose I have had more practice than you," he said, thoughtful. "And this is not your weapon of choice, after all. It is hardly surprising, if you lose when you do not fight with your best."

Strange, what memories linger for some, and not others. Perhaps it was only that compression of memories, covering the span of half a year, that made him remember that _one_ at all. Thor had clearly forgotten it. Very well, he felt no need to remind him.

Just because it was a memory of better times did not make it worth dwelling upon.

"You're just a bit rusty, is all," he said, with a smile. It was not a mocking smile—he injected as much reassurance as he could into it. He held out a hand. "And you too little understand how to fight as a mortal. Do try to keep your own limitations in mind. Let this not be another New Mexico."

Thor glowered at the reminder. Harry paused, thoughts derailed. He had to ask the question.

"What became of Jane?" he asked, because if Thor were here, then he was not where she was. Why hadn't he thought of it before? That and…something about Hermione?

"Our differences were too great for us to overcome," Thor said. "Also, a year is much longer for humans. She believed that I had forgotten her, because I failed to… 'keep in touch'."

Harry sighed, because that was the most diplomatic response he could come up with. "You mean you didn't call her, or send her an e-mail, or anything."

He had no idea how he knew what e-mail was, but decided that thinking about that was probably not worth it.

Thor looked sheepish, and fidgeted, as if he had been caught doing something he should not be doing. "I should have visited more often," he mused. "But our worlds have very different technologies. I had little else in the way of recourse."

"You're supposed to at least remember to stay in touch. That's fundamental to _any_ sort of relationship," Harry said, leaning against the wall. He was unable to keep all of his exasperation from his voice.

"But we…split up, and decided to be friends. After you died, I was not as I was. I needed time to recover. I believe she may also have blamed herself for your death. These were issues that were too difficult to work through."

"…I see," said Harry. This somehow tied in with the memories he'd known all along were missing. He hated to be reminded of that gap, and therefore sought for a different topic of conversation, while they were both still trying to catch their breath. Ah, yes. Hermione.

"And what of Hermione?" he asked, turning to face Thor, who blinked, as if startled. Right.

"Hermione?" he repeated, and Harry sighed.

"Yes, Hermione Granger. Our mutual best friend, the smartest witch of our year, took every course on offer last year. Perhaps even smarter than Jane," he said, a finger at his chin as he considered the idea, and the paths it opened up. Hmm.

This merited further thought. He frowned. "She does seem to value your opinion… and she does seem to volunteer to go out of her way to spend time with you."

"And what of you and Ginny?" asked Thor, so abruptly that it couldn't have been clearer that he was trying to avoid that line of thought. _Hmm_.

"What _of_ me and Ginny?" asked Harry, in a deliberately bored voice that Sirius would have been proud of. "Last I checked she had just barely ceased from her anger following the attack at the World Cup. Or did she say something to you?"

There was a further tell to add to an already impressive list: Weasleys tended to turn red down to their ears when under pressure. It made it a bit too easy to tell what they were feeling. But Thor knew better than to even _try_ to lie to him. Not that he would succeed, even if Harry had been normal, and not possessed of a lie-detecting sense (a sixth sense).

Thor did not seem to appreciate that Harry was not as upset by his enquiries as Thor had been when the tables were turned. There is no satisfaction in turning tables when the recipient does not lament their plight. Harry very nearly took pity on him, but as he wasn't receiving any response….

"Shall we try again, then?" he asked, with a smile.

Thor might be more impulsive, but he fought harder when angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter professes to take some inspiration from [Tricky Thing](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10498475/1/Tricky-Thing) by Mahade Crawford. As do any others with Thor and Harry training. I'm not gonna argue with it/them.


	7. Unforgivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his first Defence lesson with the new professor, and at last encounters the Imperius Curse for the first time. This goes about as well as you might expect.

That practice was absolutely necessary, both as an outlet, and for its intended uses of building up their reserves (strength, knowledge, and, in the second type, magic-based duels he insisted upon after that first session, magical power). But without those sessions, Harry would not have lasted as long as he did in their first Defence class. Which was saying something, as he still left early. He couldn't help it.

There was a bit of evidence gathered at the same time, from the lesson, to do with Neville. He'd reacted worse to the Cruciatus Curse than Harry had. That was saying something.

The Twins had spoken highly of this class, and Harry didn't understand _why_. Yes, of course, the famed auror Alastor Moody knew what he was talking about. But an actual demonstration, disregarding the backgrounds of his students, not even warning them of what was to come, both made complete sense, and seemed immensely cruel, which was not the same thing as "cool".

They filed in on that Tuesday, taking their seats without knowing how important their choice would be for that lesson. Every Defence teacher seemed radically different from all the others, anyway. Quirrell, who feigned incompetence, and taught a limited agenda, regardless; Lockhart, who genuinely was incompetent, but dangerous nonetheless, who had taught them nothing except that they should not believe everything they heard; Professor Lupin, well-versed in his area of focus. Moody would naturally know his stuff, but would he be a good teacher?

Harry's immediate reaction to learning about their lesson was to pity Ron, who was arachnophobic (although this struck him as more than slightly amusing; he had the vague memory of a red-headed woman whom he knew to be called 'Black Widow', and she was one of Thor's friends. That could complicate when he caught up to the future).

When he learnt that the subject of the class was something called "The Unforgivables", that caught and held his attention. He knew the name of only one, and that was from the Sorting Hat. And last year, he never _had_ come around to researching it…and then other events had sidetracked him. What little he remembered of that conversation increased his usual wary tension tenfold. Or at least fourfold.

"Who can name one of them?" asked Moody, after a brief introduction to the class, and the function those poor arachnids would serve. He explained why they were called the Unforgivable Curses: the use of any one of them on a human being was grounds for a life sentence in Azkaban. Harry rather expected Hermione to sniff at the anthropocentrism of this philosophy, but she was too busy soaking up the lesson, as only she could.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione's hand was the first in the air. Surprisingly, Neville's tentative one was second, some ways behind him. Both of them glanced at Harry, as if there were something he was supposed to have made of the question. As if they expected him to know one of the curses.

It was absurd, of course: they were not privy to the discussions the Sorting Hat had had with him. If it were going to reveal his deepest secrets, it would not have done to _Neville_ , or anyone else in this classroom—with the possible exceptions of Moody and Ron.

He looked down at his desk, fist clenched tight. They'd taken seats in the front, which ordinarily is a good idea, if you want good grades (and Hermione was aware of this fact). But now both Ron and Harry were wishing that they had sat elsewhere. Only Hermione seemed happy with the arrangement, as she was wont to be, whenever she had the chance to show off.

"You, girl with the bushy hair," said the new professor, pointing at Hermione, who beamed as if he'd given her a compliment. Then, she looked down, seeming a bit uncomfortable, as if she'd just realised something.

"… _Avada Kedavra_ ," she whispered, and Harry's eyes widened in shock. He remembered it as if it were seared into his memory (well, it _was_ ): his mother, before she remembered, defending him from Riddle, begging him to kill her instead, have mercy. _Avada Kedavra_. Green light. Badness. An old dream, given a more potent reality, sharp, hard edges, like a blade. He swallowed, hard, and shuddered.

"Ah, yes," said Moody, with what might be confused for relish. " _Avada Kedavra_ …the Killing Curse. The worst of the three, it causes instant death for the victim. And there's no counter to it, no defence possible. Only one person has been hit with it, and lived to tell the tale, and he's sitting right in front of me."

Harry decided to hate this professor, if for no other reason than that he, even as Lockhart had, had singled Harry out for special attention, as if he wanted it, as if he didn't get enough as it was. His nails dug into the wood of his desk. Ron glanced his way, but both of them knew that there was nothing that he could do.

Moody took out a jar of spiders, which was enough to distract Ron. Harry took no pleasure from that fact. He watched with feigned apathy belied by his unblinking stare. Moody set a spider on the table at the front of the room, which he'd decided to use for his demonstrations. Immediately, the spider scurried wildly for safety, but it was too slow.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" cried Moody, and there was a rush of wind, a beam of green light, and the spider lay there, motionless. Ron did not mind spiders dead; he automatically relaxed, even as Harry tensed, gripping the sides of his desk with greater force. That was it. It was that spell. He'd seen it now, used in front of him, now that he was old enough to understand its significance.

Hadn't this spell killed him, once? Was that why he'd become…what he'd become? Whatever that was? If he'd been hit with the Curse (to which there was no counter, no means of defence), had he not died, same as everyone else?

But Mother, and old magic, had dragged him back…him, and something else.

"Now, there's more to these spells than just knowing the wand movements and the words. That's part of the reason these curses are considered forbidden: you have to mean them. You could all point your wands at me right now and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed."

 _Care to stake your life on that assumption_? asked the more dangerous part of Harry's mind. The part that knew things, but made bad suggestions. It had been easier when he'd called it "Loki"….

Moody was speaking, saying something about how they needed to pay attention to him when he was talking, and CONSTANT VIGILANCE. Harry's heart beat frantically, but his mind returned to the demonstration at hand.

Well, if Moody had started with the worst Curse, things could only improve from here, right?

And then he remembered the Curse whose name he already knew, the one the Sorting Hat had told him, the one that filled him with dread although he had never researched it, only on account of under what circumstances the Sorting Hat had mentioned it: the Imperius Curse.

"Anyone know any others?" asked Moody. Again, with greater hesitance, Neville's hand rose into the air. It was a half-hearted raising of the hand, if ever Harry had seen one. Doubtless, he did not want to see another one of those curses, performed live before him.

"Yes?" asked Moody, sparing him a glance with just his normal, non-electric-blue, non-creepy eye.

"The _Cruciatus Curse_ , sir," said Neville, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hmm. Your name's Longbottom?" asked the auror, not looking at Neville, at least not with his normal eye. Neville nodded, pale and shaking, and looking as if he'd just volunteered for an impossible task.

He slumped a bit in evident relief when the professor asked no further questions, merely withdrawing a second jar, with a second spider. This one was not as smart as the previous one. Of course, it had barely been there for a second, when Moody muttered something about it needing to be a bit bigger, that they could the easier see the effects of his next spell.

Ron made to push his chair back, but Harry had already clamped his hand around his arm with the solid firmness of a manacle. He sent him a look. " _Show no weakness_ ," he said, in a voice too low for Moody to hear. Ron glanced at him, almost pleading, and then looked down, fists clenched in his lap. He'd seen worse.

" _Crucio_!" cried Moody, pointing at the spider, and Harry stared as the familiar light hit the spider, that started twitching, legs shaking with what Harry knew was unbearable pain.

Oh. Well, this was going to be a wonderfully fun lesson. He was already well-acquainted with the subject material. He wouldn't need to study this. But… _he'd_ blocked the Cruciatus Curse. One of the Unforgivable Curses, which couldn't be defended against, couldn't be blocked.

Hmm.

Neville disturbed the class by pushing himself out of his seat, and backing towards the door. He looked much as Harry felt: white, pale, shaking so badly that his legs could barely support him, as if _he'd_ gone under the Curse. Harry knew that it came with the occasional muscle spasm.

With a start, glancing back and forth between Moody and Neville, it occurred to him that maybe Moody had known whatever backstory piece of information caused Neville to react thus. Maybe he'd guessed that this would be his reaction. What was his aim? Desensitisation? Or did he get a kick out of it…like Snape?

"You've made your point! Cancel the spell," Hermione begged, and Moody shook his head, as if he'd spaced out for a moment. He broke line of sight, and the spider went limp. It was not moving, yet neither was it dead. Harry knew the feeling, knew how it felt just to need a reprieve, but that reprieve would never be given in battle.

He had been hit with that curse only once, and it had burst his last defences, crashed into his every barrier and protection with the force of a wave against the shore. That curse was what had caused him to use the mantra for the first time. It was responsible for everything that had happened ever after, had just as formative a role in Harry's life as the Killing Curse.

He stared at the spider, as Moody reduced it to its original size, and swept it back into its jar. Somehow, Harry doubted that it would be compensated for its recent torture.

"Well, someone's been silent, considering I was told that he was one of the brightest students in the class—the only one to get full marks on the final last term. Why so quiet, Harry Potter?"

It felt too like the exchange of verbal blows that attended a duel. It was tempting to respond in kind. He glanced at Ron, who had gone pale, but was it in response to the recent pains of Moody's victim, or what was now to come?

"Why would I know any of the Unforgivable Curses?" Harry asked, with almost successful feigned indifference.

"You don't have to be interested in Dark Magic to have heard of it," Moody said. "I am sure that you came across it in your studies—"

Harry decided that it would be too suspicious if he kept arguing: Moody would eventually make him admit to knowing the name of the third curse, or he might slip up in some other context. If he kept insisting he knew nothing…. "I'd never heard the names of the Killing Curse, or the Cruciatus before, although they've been used on me. But I think the Sorting Hat mentioned one to me last year, when it was talking about the uses of occlumency. I think it said it was called the 'Imperius Curse'."

He did not dare to glance at Ron, to see his response. There was too much importance to the moment. He didn't know what the Imperius Curse was, or what it did, but he could guess, just by its name, and by the context in which the Sorting Hat had mentioned it. He wished that he'd known more than just that one curse, could have volunteered the name of, say, the Killing Curse. That one seemed the most innocuous—it had done him less harm than the Cruciatus, which had _broken_ him, and as for the Imperius Curse….

"Ah, yes. Caused quite a lot of trouble in the wake of the last war. Plenty of Death Eaters couldn't be brought to trial…convinced everyone they'd been under the Imperius and got a free pass."

That this fact clearly ate at him all these years later was nether here nor there. Harry was compiling a list of reasons to hate Moody, regardless of whether or not he turned out to be trustworthy.

"The Imperius Curse…the mind-control curse." Harry's heart plummeted to his stomach. Like a hare running for cover, he doubted very much that it would return again until all was safe. He didn't want to know how he looked, but it must have been bad, for Ron—Thor—turned to him, and said, in his quietest voice: " _Show no weakness. Give no ground_."

" _Imperio_!" Moody cried, and the scuttling spider suddenly relaxed, as if the eyes of the class weren't on it, as if unaware of any potential threats, as if it were safe and secure, doing whatever a spider might do in its spare time. It reared up on four legs and began what was unmistakably a tapdance. Some laughed. Harry clenched his fists so tight he knew they were drawing blood, and very much didn't care.

He didn't mean that.

Did he?

He shook his head, staring at the spider with mounting horror.

"Think it's funny, do you?" asked Moody. The laughter, which had spread from one person to the next, died down at the rebuke. "Total control. I could make it drown itself, jump out a window, throw itself down one of your throats."

Harry shivered, and couldn't help glancing at Ron. For the first time in a long time, he felt a desire for some older relative to protect him from the world. Or maybe just _this_. Hadn't he wanted Thor to save him, back when—?

_Show no weakness. Give no ground. Hold the line. Success is salvation. Death is victory. Sacrifice is worth. Hold the line._

_There is an end. You must wait for it, is all. You can outwait anyone_.

But he hadn't. He didn't know if those were echoes, memories, or his inner voice giving him advice (and if it did, wasn't it always the worst advice? No?).

 _Show no weakness_.

He watched the spider, feeling a sudden kinship with it.

_I've got red in my ledger. I mean to wipe it out._

He stood. He wasn't consciously aware of having done so, but he was in a hundred different times and places, a hundred pieces, each piece in a different place, and a different time.

Why wasn't the spell blue?

He stumbled over the chairs, backing out of the room, as if Moody would try to cast the spell on _him_ if he dared turn his back. As it turned out, that was next week's lesson. For now, he turned and fled.

* * *

"If they're called Unforgivables, how are you getting away with casting that one on us?" Harry demanded. A murmur ran through the class. Unfortunately for him, rumour had spread through Gryffindor Tower of his odd behaviour last class. It was only a matter of time before it spread through the school. He blamed Moody. It was easier than blaming himself.

"The Ministry thinks highly of Dumbledore. Dumbledore gave me permission. The Ministry think you're too young to understand, but Dumbledore agrees that you've got to know what's out there waiting for you. You've got to be prepared. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Most of the class jumped. Somehow, Harry and Ron didn't.

Harry had half a mind to volunteer to go first. Instead, he watched everyone else. Moody probably wouldn't have let him get it over with, anyway, and he learnt something, somewhat, by watching others undergoing the process.

He frowned, and opened his seventh sense. It went against his better judgement to do that when the sheer influx of information was liable to overwhelm him, causing him to miss whatever instruction Moody might give, but let's face it: he wasn't going to help them figure out how to fight off the Imperius Curse—the whole point of this exercise for everyone else was so that they would know how it felt. Only for Harry was it an attempt to find an exploitable weakness to the spell.

All he was missing was whatever sick show Moody was putting on at their expense. Was he a sadist or something? First, calling attention to Harry as the sole survivor of the Killing Curse; then, dragging out the Cruciatus until Neville was shaky and jumpy for hours afterwards; and now _this_. Dumbledore sure knew how to pick them, didn't he?

 _This_ was Dumbledore's friend?

Harry shook his head, studying the sturdy twine of which the spell seemed to be made for any sign of weakness. His seventh sense was far from infallible—it hadn't found Riddle's soul in the diary in second year, after all, and he still had trouble interpreting what he found, sometimes. It was a messy tangle of emotion and movement at the best of times (i.e., when he wasn't a mess trying to find an escape from the noose tightening around his neck). And it was almost impossible to multitask…all the data coming in from his seventh sense concerning everything within his range of awareness was enough to cause sensory overload in itself, if you weren't used to it, without adding data from the five primary senses. He could sometimes get away with using his sixth and seventh senses at the same time…the sixth sense rarely contributed much in the form of data, but it _was_ good at intuition….

He sighed, and opened his sixth sense. Might as well. He needed all the help he could get.

The only thing he could think of—and it would rarely work; it would require plenty of forewarning—was to expand an occlumency shield around himself to intercept the twine before it could reach him.

And then, came Ron's turn.

In retrospect, he should have expected Ron—Thor—to be the odd one out, the only one with a default measure of defence against the inexorable. The twine tried to reach him, but as it approached, it glowed white hot, and began to burn. Harry stared in what he refused to admit was awe; that was quite the spectacle to behold. Ron didn't even seem to realise that he was doing anything.

Moody cast the spell, again and again, frowning at his lack of success.

"Well, er," he began, faltering. "I suppose you have some sort of natural immunity…like nothing I've ever seen before."

He moved on. Harry thought fast. He knew he was running out of leeway.

Of course. Twine was such a sturdy material…but it was made of plant fibres. The spell wasn't, but now he knew that it could burn. And Mother's love was silver fire. It was a stopgap measure, if nothing else.

_What do you think, Mother? Should I try?_

Although he knew that she couldn't answer him, located too deep in his soul as she was, he still asked. To do otherwise would be rude.

He knew that he couldn't summon the armour, but Mother's love was the ultimate protection—the armour was just the form it usually took. Unfortunately, it was entirely out of his control. All he could do was hope for the best, and give Mother some forewarning about the impending threat.

_**Do** _ _you suppose that you have the ability to block the Imperius Curse, as you did the Killing one?_

He'd never made any sort of concerted effort to contact Mother whilst in the Waking World—the last threat requiring her intervention, if you didn't count the dementors, which were equal risk for both of them, had been at the end of second year. He'd still been in denial, then.

Now, he kept his seventh sense open—to see how it would react. Was there mind-reading involved in the Imperius Curse? It forged some sort of connection between the mind of caster and victim, but couldn't override the Fidelius Charm.

Suddenly, it seemed _imperative_ that he not allow any sort of connection to form between him and Moody. Mother reacted to his distress. He could feel it in a flickering, burgeoning ache in his arms.

_It is only Moody, testing the class by using an Unforgivable on them. The one thought to be the most harmless. Ha! There is no need for the armour here. That would only rouse suspicion. Please, Mother._

Why couldn't he have been forewarned before school even began that he'd be encountering this? A week was not enough time to prepare, but Moody had given them _no_ forewarning. Even someone who was hit by such a curse in real life would have had the _opportunity_ of studying it, surely. Their research might have been filled with dead ends, as were the hours Harry had spent this last week, scouring the library, but they would have had years to research.

Moody called him up, and he braced himself. His skin burnt all over, a fierce stinging, the sort common with a new burn, before it settles into its usual rhythms. It was painful, but he could work through pain.

He could.

He was not as sure that he could work through mind-control.

He refused to meet anyone's eyes as he trudged to the front of the room like a man on the way to the gallows. If there were someone who wove the fates of men and gods, they were laughing at him. How many such turnabouts could this life hold?

His need to see the details of how the spell functioned was dwarfed by his need to know exactly what Moody was doing. He needed to hear him. He needed to be able to see where he was walking. If it were possible to die of sensory overload, he would have done, second year. Instead, it had given him a raging headache. At least his focus was narrower this time. He didn't need to see the entire room; he only needed to see Moody. He didn't need to hear his classmates' reactions; he only needed to know what Moody was saying.

"Ready now?" Moody asked. The only appropriate answer to that was "no". Harry said nothing. "Alright, then: _Imperio_!"

He was so fast! Of course, that was to be expected from an auror, but _still_. There was barely enough time to even _think_ of defending himself before he felt the world begin to fade away. He was filled with a warm, peaceful sort of laziness. Happiness such as he'd never known, or could not remember if he had, flooded him.

 _Mother?_ he managed to ask.

 _Jump onto the desk_ , a voice commanded. He didn't recognise that voice, but he didn't like the sound of it.

 _Why_? he asked. Suspicion tried to form beneath the pleasant dream.

 _Such comfort is not for you_ , said his sixth sense, or whatever it was that he had left as the final barricade to—

Ah. Yes, he needed to fight this off, before certain foreign presences could take advantage of his momentary lapse, the breach in his defences. There were two of them—now three—against him, and Mother. He did not like those odds, but weren't they familiar? He'd fought worse. He'd _bested_ worse.

 _Fight back_ , suggested the final barrier. It was too busy warding off Thanos to try something more direct. But something burnt beneath his skin, in those moments stretched into minutes. His seventh sense might as well be closed, for all the good it was doing him. The world was far distant. He needed to get back out. How did you wake yourself from a dream? How had he returned from the mist of his soul after the dementor attack, to the real world? How did he get back? He'd never gone into his own mind before. Except….

Desperation. Fear. Guilt. Loss. Pain. He needed his brother to call him out, and he wasn't there.

He was there. _Love is your guiding force_ , said the memory of the Sorting Hat.

The third second stretched out, and then Mother's love flared bright, for a moment, igniting that sturdy twine, burning it down the line, burning the connection bridging their minds. He _felt_ it break.

Everything came rushing back. He was on his knees.

" _You_ ," he said, in a voice rusty from disuse, or from screaming. Ron—Thor—tensed behind him, as if he knew that Harry had been pushed too far, had gone too far. Harry had known that he should have left when Moody had told him to. He also knew that he had to learn if he had any means at all by which to fight the Curse. What did he get from it? Now, his mind was as jumbled as his soul had been, last year…or it felt that way. Perhaps the dust would settle into familiar patterns. But it would never do to just hope that.

He had to climb over a few desks to get there so quickly, but Ron was there a handful of seconds later. He hit Harry, hard, over the head, as Moody and the rest of the class watched. Harry swayed on his feet. His thoughts realigned themselves. He shook his head, to drive out his worst impulses.

"Try it again," he demanded. Ron stared at him in evident horror, but Harry knew that he needed a defence against this spell if he needed one against any.

Moody raised his wand again. Harry was aware of it, this time, aware of the process, aware of the buildup of energy, via his mostly closed seventh sense.

" _Imperio_!" cried Moody. He was far too eager.

A wall of occlumency fortified with silver fire—fake silver fire, the other magic, sprang up. It let the spell through only far enough to cut the twine, and then it burnt the line leading back to Moody. Other things could be done with that twine, he was sure. He just had no idea what. He stared at it, from his vantage within his own mind. It was limp and innocuous-looking. He'd find a way to take it apart, discover all of its weaknesses, what the optimal defence was.

He left his own mind, returning to the outside world, and Ron hit him again, without even having to be asked.

His head couldn't handle the additional trauma. He lost consciousness, which, to be fair, gave him the perfect opportunity to study the spell further, and with an excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...actually kinda like this chapter. Oops.


	8. Time Started It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sorcerer arrives, apparently from the future, and offers to help. Of _course_ , Ron knows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title meant to be said with a sulky, petulant tone of voice. You know the one.
> 
> This 'fic introduces yet another variant of time travel, in addition to wizarding time travel (Time Turners), and whatever Asgardian magic Odin used to send Thor back in time. Back when I was writing this last March (March 2019), I thought to myself "I hope I haven't introduced too many forms of time travel. Then again, it's the same number you have if you use all the types that exist in the MCU and Harry Potter, because I just subtracted the _Ant-Man_ one and added in a gods-only version. I'm okay."  
> Clearly, this means that my readers should have expected things to be as convoluted as they now are. (Sorry!)  
> My first thought, when I learnt that _Endgame_ was going to involve time travel was, "Aha! We're finally going to learn how the time travel hinted at in _Ant-Man_ works!"  
> But, I'd secretly been hoping for/dreading learning how Infinity Stone Time Travel was going to work, and that it might conflict with this.

Of course, his little misadventure of Moody's class was the talk of the school by the end of the day, but it took Malfoy a bit more time than just that to figure out how to insult him about it. In the meantime, he pretended not to hear the whispers and occasional jeers. A few people asked him whether or not he was crazy, which was something he ought to figure out the answer to. The answer, according to most standard legal definitions, which were the only relevant ones, was probably "yes".

He ignored them, to check in on Ginny. He hadn't forgot what Ron had said last week. Fancy bringing Ginny into things out of nowhere, when she wasn't even around to defend herself! If he were going to talk to her, he'd best do it now, before the rumours spread throughout Gryffindor House. This must be the gossips' house.

"Hello, Ginny," he said, sitting down beside her. He affected not to notice the way she flinched at the sudden noise. "What are you working on?"

He peered down at the symbols covering the page. It was a simple translation exercise. "Do you want any help?"

He smiled at her, and she shook her head so that her hair whipped her face. " _Harry_? Why are you talking to me?"

He pouted. "Well, I do seem to recall you saying something earlier about me ignoring you all last year. I thought I'd show my commitment to changing that by dropping in, right now. Do you want my help, or not?"

She glared at him. "You didn't take Ancient Runes, Harry. I doubt you'd be much help."

He gave a wave of his hands. "You'd be surprised what I know, Ginny. I've been doing independent study. But, fine. This isn't the sort of thing you should ask for help on, anyway. That's very smart of you. You might try saying the names of them aloud as you write them. And don't keep looking at the textbook. You're trying to commit these to memory, not copy them."

Her glare intensified. He pretended not to see it.

"So, you're taking Ancient Runes, and what else?" he asked, watching as her shoulders slumped and she resumed inking in symbols.

"Care of Magical Creatures," she snapped. He beamed at her, but she didn't notice, too busy studying. "I thought I'd take one thought-intensive course, and one hands-on one, to balance things out. Besides, a class like Care of Magical Creatures is always useful. Just about any job would touch on the subject. I didn't choose my courses just for an easy workload, as you and Ron did."

Harry scowled, and folded his arms. "I think you'll find that Ron and I didn't choose our courses for the light courseload, either. Care of Magical Creatures is the only course on offer practical enough to have a light courseload. Is it so difficult to believe that Ron and I chose Divination on account of a genuine curiosity about the subject? Hermione and McGonagall dismiss it, true, but they're both rather inflexible in their beliefs, and they both seem less able to handle illogical, chaotic concepts. Divination is one of those. The course is an endless array of different ways of looking at the world, systems of belief and thoughts that have shaped cultures throughout millennia. In its own way, it has the potential to be like Ancient Runes."

Ginny looked up from her homework, staring at him, open-mouthed. She shut her mouth and looked down at her paper again by the time his mini-speech ended.

"I see," she said, in a rather small voice. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Harry said, leaning back in his seat. He hadn't realised that he'd leant forwards, or unfolded his arms, for the confrontation. He wondered if he'd frightened her. He hoped not. "I should just let you study. I've homework of my own to work on. I just thought I'd check in on you."

"You…you could work here, too," she said, face turning very red as she shifted her papers aside to make room for him. He stared.

"Well, I suppose, if you don't mind…."

* * *

The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were set to arrive the first week of October. The professors seemed to realise that their arrival would result in widespread distraction, and were trying to cram as much of the syllabus as they could into the first month. Everyone seemed a bit dazed and unsure of how to react to the onslaught, except for the fifth and seventh years, who had fully expected to be inundated regardless, and whose workloads were exactly as heavy as they had been for fifth years and seventh years for generations.

It was a very good thing that Harry and Thor only had two electives, and that they had free blocks in which to recover. It was triply so, as it turned out, for reasons that neither had known to expect when choosing their third-year courses at the end of second.

Thor was heading in the vague direction of the library, following Harry, when he heard a voice from a classroom that he would later learn was supposed to be shut and locked for the day. Hogwarts was full of abandoned classrooms, and ones that were usually empty, but had one or two classes held there. The original Hogwarts must have offered a great deal more courses, and had a great deal more professors. Now, they served as ideal locations for ambushes, trysts, practice, and tutoring.

This probably fell into the first category, although it might have also been fit into some fifth category for things that didn't belong to standard usage.

"Psst! Thor!" said a quiet voice from behind the open door. "In here!"

This was immediately suspicious. Harry would not have gone: he would have assumed that it was a trap, and if he reacted at all, it would have been to countertrap whoever had dared to attempt such a thing. But Harry was paranoid. For his part, Thor knew that everyone at this school—scratch that, everyone in the universe—bar Harry and the Sorting Hat, knew him only as Ronald Weasley, sixth child, youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley. That _anyone_ should be calling his real name, particularly in the halls of Hogwarts, when he knew where Harry was, and he was not there, warranted investigation.

He glanced at Harry, and then glanced at the open door. Loki would have chastised him for impulsivity, but….

He approached the open door, peering inside. It seemed unoccupied, at first glance. It seemed unoccupied, until he entered the room, and someone behind the door shut it, behind him.

"Where is your brother?" asked the man, as Thor stared at him, with a puzzled frown. He looked slightly familiar, as if they'd met once before, but he wore clothes that were strange by any Midgardian standards—muggle or wizard. Those were not wizarding robes. "Robes" was probably the wrong word for them. But they clearly tied shut in the front, so that was the best you could do. They were dark, and that helped him not to stand out as much, which was probably the only reason he'd managed to make it this far into Hogwarts.

He had dark hair turning grey, which struck Thor as…off. When he'd seen this man before, he'd seemed much younger. That seemed to rule out them having met in the future.

Then, the question caught up to him. That question, added to the way he had himself been addressed, could mean only one person.

"He went ahead," Thor said, giving the simplest answer, until he could place this man. "Remind me of who you are."

The man shook his head, with a smile. "Right, right. It's been over twenty years. Can't expect you to recognise me. It's Stephen. I was the doctor who treated him at the end of…first year, did he say it was? So, you know I'm not here to hurt him. Haven't you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?"

That term did sound somewhat familiar. Harry was paranoid enough for both of them. He'd at least bring Harry here to speak with the doctor. Doctor… _Strange_ had saved his life, before, and two against one were always good odds.

"I will bring him," he promised, heading to the door, and turning back to look at Stephen.

"I'm not going to wander about your crazy magic school," said Stephen. "I'll wait right here."

Harry was, in whatever way he managed to do that, right outside the door, about to open it.

"You fell behind," he said, cocking his head.

"There is someone who wishes to speak with us. He is the doctor who saved your life at the end of first year."

"The one I tried to kill," Harry mused. "I remember."

Thor frowned, but the statement was irrefutable. Knowing Harry, he was probably already headed towards some rather paranoid thoughts. But Thor, unsure of what he could do to make anything better, merely stepped aside, and let Harry pass into the abandoned classroom. He wasn't expecting the doctor to smile at the two of them.

Very few people were _genuinely_ glad to see Harry; for most of them, he was a tool, at best. More often, he was something to be guarded—guarded against, perhaps, or protected, but a means to an end. He didn't know what to make of the idea that someone whom he'd tried to kill seemed genuinely pleased to see him, except that it was a ruse. He was instantly wary.

"You don't need to look that way," the doctor said, his smile fading. "I'm here to help. I'd have come earlier, but you—" he pointed at Harry, "told me that I should have come at the beginning of fourth year, instead of the middle of third. Is this about the right timeframe?"

Harry was too overcome by the absurdity of that statement to respond, so Thor said, "This is the second week of fourth year."

Harry frowned. Before he could gather his wits, Stephen continued,

"Good. You said this was a very exciting year—"

"'Said'?" Harry snapped. "Said _when_? We've never even met, yet you tell me that _I_ sent you?"

Stephen turned very serious at this. "Yes. _You_ sent me here, Loki. Twenty-odd years in the future. I'm here to help you. Not just with Voldemort. With Thanos, too."

The Rules of Invocation suggested that things were about to turn very ugly. Particularly when _Harry_ tended to flinch at the mere mention of Thanos. That would ratchet up his suspicion.

"'Twenty years hence'?" he repeated, his voice very soft, and brimming with malice. "Do you claim to have traveled back in time to speak with us?"

Even as he spoke, he gathered energy for an attack. Thor readied himself to intervene.

"I'm here to help," Stephen repeated, in his most serious voice. "And yes, I traveled back in time to do this. Man, when you told me you were super-paranoid at this point in time, I thought you were exaggerating."

As he spoke, he waved his hands in a complex series of gestures. A yellow-orange net of energy formed, glowing, around his hands. It took the brunt of a direct hit from Loki's spell, and the doctor staggered back.

"Good thing you helped me figure out how to block the spells you were liable to use. I thought all that practice was overkill. But you were absolutely right. It was necessary."

Loki paused, probably trying to figure out how to change his angle of attack. Thor breathed easier knowing that Stephen had _some_ means of defending himself.

"How do you know of Thanos?" Loki asked. Stephen sighed.

"Because you told me. You and Thor—and Hermione, and Ginny."

He shot a significant glance at Ron when he said Hermione's name. Ron missed it, but some of the tension drained from his brother. Some of the suspicion. Thor said that this was the doctor who had saved his life…and he did seem to know how to counteract a basic offensive spell fortified with the _other_ kind of magic….

Wait a minute. Had he said something about Ginny?

"These are dangerous times," he said, which was as close as he would come to apologising. Nothing the doctor had said rang false. He should give him a chance.

The doctor's eyebrows rose.

"You claim to know me. But I know nothing of you," he said. "As a gesture of faith, what are you, and… _what_ manner of magic do you practice?"

Stephen blinked, and glanced at Thor, shaking his head. "I don't believe it. Those are the _exact_ same words."

Thor shifted on his feet, and began fiddling with the unicorn-hair wand.

"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," he said, enunciating each word with great force. "That tends to lead to much confusion. I'm a sorcerer."

Loki blinked, and tilted his head. "…A sorcerer. I don't believe I've heard of them."

"We guard Earth against interdimensional threats," he said, leveling a significant look at Loki.

Twenty years hence. Ah.

"I saw the footage of the Chitauri Invasion on TV, before I got involved in this whole mess. It was before I knew I was a sorcerer. It's 2017, now. I missed out on the hubbub about signing the Sokovia Accords, so I don't know how I would have reacted before, but, speaking as someone who is now technically doing something illegal to save the world, I think they're a stupid idea."

Loki glanced at Thor, saw that he didn't understand either, turned back to Stephen.

"The Sokovia Accords were an agreement signed by some of the Avengers that they wouldn't act without U.N. approval after they, you know, dropped a country."

"Ah," said Thor, as if _that_ meant something to him, at least. "Then, it is because of Tony's army of killer robots—"

" _What_?" asked Loki. That last statement shouldn't even have any semantic value in the real world. "An army of killer robots? When were you going to mention that?"

He hoped he sounded as dazed as he felt.

Thor looked sheepish.

"You dropped a _country_?" Loki continued. All he'd done was destroy New York…and perhaps a few other places, it wasn't quite clear. And try to take over the world.

This conversation needed to get back on track before break ended, but….

"If you are yet another time traveler," he said, resigned to the idea of a _third_ form of time travel being introduced, "how many times have we met?"

Stephen shook his head. "I should have known that you'd ask that. You _always_ ask that. Just how do you expect to keep track? But it's the second time for you and Thor, and the fourth time for me, if you count the incident in the hospital, and the third, if you don't."

That wasn't too bad. He relaxed slightly.

"The fourth time, then. But if you come from the future, then you know that we survived the war."

Stephen frowned, and paused. Loki noticed his hesitation. "What? Am I wrong?"

"Well…yes. This isn't like wizarding time travel, where everything that happened always happened. It's possible that I shouldn't be able to do this at all, but I researched time travel extensively in the library of Kamar-Taj, and I think I've got it more or less figured out. I'm here not just to help you, but to get in as much practice with time travel as I can. Practice is important. You've made it quite clear that we're screwed probably even if we master as many skills as we can. I'm going to practice as much as I can, before it's too late."

Dread stole through the room, painting the walls with frost.

"All we know is that, in the timeline I came from, you survived the war. You, and Ron, and Hermione, and Ginny, at the very least. But that's already changed: I never appeared during your third year. I've already changed the timeline. But I'll be able to keep coming back in time to help you, and keep changing the timeline, unless you die, or Hermione dies, or it otherwise becomes impossible to restore my memories, eight years from now. It's in my best interest to keep you alive, too. I don't want to break time any more than I already have."

Right. So, maybe now they hadn't survived the war. He couldn't know—

"But, on the plus side, I can bring information, and maybe even items, from the future to help you. Just as long as you make sure to ensure those objects' existence in the future. I can be useful. And I'll check in on you…try to make it the same time every week…."

"And you know Thor and me in the future. And Hermione," he said, with a knowing smile and a glance in Ron's direction, that leveled out, as he said, "and Ginny. What of Sirius? And Remus?"

He'd been planning on dragging those two into the war against Thanos. He didn't like that they hadn't been mentioned.

Stephen _hmm_ ed. "I think you mentioned them, once or twice. Sirius…let's see…he died at the end of your fifth year. And Remus died at the end of your seventh."

He froze, as the familiar pain of loss—grief, turned his body to lead. He stared up at Stephen through his bangs. His head was too heavy to lift. Perhaps there was a bit more of Harry Potter to him than he would otherwise have assumed.

"…' _Dead_ '," he whispered, as if pronouncing a death sentence. "After only two years…no. I refuse to accept this."

"We can change it," Stephen said, his tone almost eager. "That's what I'm here for. As long as you remember what happened, you can warn me about it. Sure, I'll need you to be a bit forthcoming with what actually happened, but we can _save_ them. There might be some people we can't save, but as long as I keep coming back and forth between times, we can make the best future possible."

"Do you understand your own offer?" Loki asked, voice rather raw, even though he kept it quiet. "Omniscience—knowledge of the future. There are those who have argued it is indistinguishable from omnipotence. Would you trust me with such power?"

Stephen looked him dead in the eyes. "Do you know what I think? I think you're a good person, more or less, who just lost his way."

Loki cracked a humourless grin. "'More or less'. I suppose I deserve that."

Thor's hand landed on his shoulder. He'd done little to interfere, hadn't even defended Stephen, as if he somehow recognised the importance of having Loki build this bridge on his own. And he supposed he _had_ built it. There was something new here—a new alliance. But Stephen…he could not have made it clearer that, like Thor, when he looked at Loki, he did not see a monster. And he was the only other in this time who knew of the Invasion…who'd seen what he'd done. How could he have such…faith?

"And we don't have to talk about the dire threats looming in the future all the time," Stephen continued. "Everyone agrees that I'm something of a magic prodigy. And you are, too. I'm sure we could learn a lot from one another's magic. For instance, I was only able to find you two by opening my seventh sense. But you only gave me the crash course in that."

Loki stared at him. _Talk_ with someone. About _magic_ , the _other_ kind of magic. Someone who was _not_ Mother. There was probably some reasonable response he should have to that, but he didn't know what it was.

"Yes," he said at last. "We could."

Call it a peace offering. "I should not have attacked you. I apologise."

Thor stared at him, as if he'd grown extra appendages. What he was saying wasn't _that_ out of character, was it?

"This is the oddest thing that's happened yet this year," Loki muttered, relaxing slightly with the knowledge that he was not under immediate threat.

"Not _odd_ ," Thor said. " _Strange_."

Loki turned to stare at him. "…Was that a joke, Thor? Since when do _you_ have sense of humour?"

Thor pouted. "I've always had a sense of humour, Brother," he protested. "You just never noticed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sokovia was a _continent_ , right?  
> ...no? It's a country? My bad....  
> At least I fixed it...or at least put in the effort of a quick fix. Thanks to those on both sites who pointed this out.  
> :)


	9. This Is Not the Olympics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Goblet of Fire is introduced.

Stephen was twenty-five hours early on the next week, appearing when Harry had been on his way to the Owlery for his weekly check on Hedwig, and into a thankfully empty corridor. He made up for it by arriving twenty-three hours late on the one after that. The first meeting proved what he had said before—Stephen now didn't even remember mentioning that he'd previously mentioned showing up during third year. He told them that this was the fifth time they'd met, when Loki asked, but insisted that he'd always shown up in the beginning of fourth year—to the extent of his knowledge.

It was on his third visit—their sixth meeting, by Stephen's count, that Loki, determined to keep Stephen from revealing himself by accidentally appearing during the middle of a class, or something, confronted him about how he had come to be in Hogwarts to begin with. This led to a brief discussion on the nature of Sling-Rings, which were very interesting, rather alarming devices. Apparently only highly moral people became sorcerers. Or, perhaps, this explained every unsolved crime where the perpetrator seemed to have vanished into thin air.

From here, Loki came up with a makeshift solution. Regardless of whether or not Stephen eventually mastered time travel, arriving at just the right time (quite literally), it would not do for him to keep appearing in the castle.

"The Gryffindor Common Room is always empty at about this time," he announced. "If you appear there when it is empty, you will better be able to wait for us unnoticed if you arrive early or late. But you will need to acquaint yourself with the Common Room, first. I will show you a wizarding spell that should be useful for this purpose: _similis videor_!"

Stephen had no time to react before the wand hit him on the head, and a creeping coldness spread from the point of impact.

"The Disillusionment Charm?" asked Thor, at a loss. "Would true invisibility not be better?"

Loki narrowed his eyes in what was almost a glare. Stephen was not trustworthy enough to know about the invisibility cloak, or the Map, yet, even if they were going to show him the Gryffindor dorms.

"No," he said, but didn't explain. He turned to Stephen. "This is a spell you should be able to replicate, providing that you paid any attention to how it works."

"It causes light to bend around an object, for the most part, but it leaves a distortion in the air, as if the spell is incomplete."

He was not going to press them for a more complete spell. Stephen didn't ask any questions about any of this, instead following them in silence through the halls of Hogwarts, jumping at every noise and hoping that people just overlooked Stephen. At last, they arrived at the portrait hole. Its guardian had never revealed them before, but allowing a strange man access to the dorms might be the exception to the rule.

"Will you let us through?" he asked, acting as if Stephen weren't even there. He'd had Stephen lag behind, to ensure that the fat Lady didn't see him. She sighed, and swung the door outwards. The door, once opened, remained in that position until it was closed. She'd complained about people leaving it open before,

Now was the most opportune moment for Stephen to enter the mostly-deserted Common Room, unnoticed. Loki had to turn back to find him, and lead him back to the open door.

"There is no need for you to acquaint yourself with the guardian of this door," he said, eyes narrowed, once they were all three safely back inside the Common Room.

" _This_ is your dorm?" asked Stephen, who clearly wasn't listening. "I know this is a castle, but _most_ of the people here aren't actual royalty of any kind. Why—"

"You will never convince Malfoy of that fact," said Loki. "And the Tower is not as lavish or opulent as befits royalty. These furnishings have been here for a thousand years, since the school was founded."

"They've kept well," Stephen said, clearly at a loss as to what else could possibly be said in response. "Why is everything in Ironman's colours?"

Loki scowled. "Very well, then, a summary of the houses. As you are not to meet Hermione or Ginny yet, Thor will need to summarise them for you,"

" _I_?" repeated Thor, taken aback by suddenly being drawn into their conversation. His brother had already wandered off, however, and could not hear him.

* * *

He couldn't remember ever having had quite as much to speak with Mother about in the cottage, before, unless it was back when he'd had those nightly dreams (memories) of the past. He wasn't even sure where to begin. This year was certainly complicated, wasn't it?

Mother had a tendency to appear, as if out of nowhere, no matter where in the house he was wandering. He did not quite dare to go to the basement, suspecting, as he did, that it was somehow connected to Riddle. Of course…it was also possible that the basement contained _Mother's_ dark side, if she could possibly have one. Her regrets, perhaps? After all, this was her house, and it was a reflection of _her_ personality, and not his. Was it, perhaps, connected to the forbidden underbelly of the castle? Sometimes, even now, he wondered what lay beneath. No one had ever given him further information or instruction concerning that lower level of the palace, and Mother had never brought up the basement again.

He knew that she still wouldn't be in the living room with the fireplace—she'd had quite enough of that room to last her for a while, despite being responsible for the layout of the house. She deserved a change of scene.

As he was considering going upstairs, instead of down, she came around a corner onto the landing, and walked down to meet him.

"Is it September Thirtieth then, my son?" she asked, with an almost-vague smile, hands outstretched in welcome. Being part of any sort of nobility seemed to carry with it the inevitability of being raised at a distance, with no physical contact between family members (except in a duel, or practice duel; those were acceptable). She had, however, been known to defy tradition and stereotype before.

She was all in pastel blue and lilac, today, light and airy, or perhaps preparing for winter early. He was wearing exactly what he'd been wearing for the last several months—Dudley's castoffs, now ensorcelled to fit him, and the boots of unknown origin. It was possible that he had quite as much flexibility as Mother in what he wore, here, where, as she had told him herself, nothing was quite real.

Swamped by layers of tapestry, it was difficult to see whether or not Mother had bothered changing her clothes during that long stretch of time spent recovering from the dementors. Did it require an expenditure of energy? Did it make good practice? He had many other ways to practice his magic, regardless—more important ones: healing and battle magic (Thor was helping with this), Hogwarts magic, mind magic….

He doubted that it took any great expenditure of energy, though. It was almost tempting to experiment, just for the sake of the experience. But he only had so long here, and he needed to speak with his mother.

Really, though, how to even _begin_ to tell her all he'd learnt and all that had happened since last they'd spoken?

"Mother," he said, walking up the stairs to meet her. "A pleasure to see you again, always. Is there somewhere we might talk? I have much I wish to consult with you about."

"Outside," she said, with a sigh like the wind through the trees, which was fitting. "There is little time left to enjoy it before winter. We will speak outside."

There was a brief glance in the direction of the living room. He was not going to oblige her to speak with him, there.

It had been years since they'd spoken outside concerning important matters, anyway—everything had been set aside in the interest of preserving as much as could be of his mind and soul, last year,

In first and second year, particularly after his encounter with the Mirror of Desire, particularly after he'd drawn her out of this world into the waking one, he'd sought to learn how to replicate the process. He'd not given much thought to outside, but he remembered that Mother had brought him there on their very first meeting, as he'd explained to her all about his life up to that moment—before it became entangled with the Dursleys. Before the dreams had begun. Perhaps it was telling that this was the location chosen for their discussion of this pivotal year in Harry's schooling. It was the first discussion of the year since Harry had any notion as to what lay before him (other than Professor Trelawney's prophecy, which he'd been turning over for months).

"What ails you, my son?" asked his mother, sitting on a bench of stone, cold, unwarmed by the sun, which did not exist in this mimicry of the outside world. That fact did not seem to trouble her, as it did him.

He sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. News at Hogwarts came in fits and starts, but this was ridiculous.

"Tell me, then, have you ever heard of a competition amongst Europe's greatest three magic schools that they call the "Triwizard Tournament'?" he at last began. Her soft sigh filtered through the non-existent breeze of her garden.

"That name is unfamiliar to me. It is not an event that ever was mentioned during my own time at Hogwarts. What manner of tournament is this, my son?"

"They say that it is much safer this year. Dumbledore has told us little else, besides. The three schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, choose a champion, somehow, to compete in this Tournament. I am told that entering constitutes a magically-binding contract, and that we should take great care before we choose to enter ourselves. No one younger than seventeen will be permitted to enter himself, Dumbledore says."

She noted the way in which he spoke those words, his incredulity, and took his meaning.

"An ideal way to be rid of me!" he exclaimed, quite abruptly. "And it is 'after the Quidditch World Cup', as Riddle said in that dream. I suppose that was a true dream I had on account of our connection…that was why Sirius thought it so important. But the Tournament…without knowledge as to how the Champion is chosen, I have no way of preventing my name being entered. I _had_ hoped that you might know, Mum."

He shivered, and tried to move on, while he'd just invoked _Lily Evans_ , before the discussion could turn to other matters which might incline him to invoke the other version of her.

"Everyone knows Alastor Moody, whom they call 'Mad-Eye'. Did you know that he is our Defence professor this year? I suppose that Dumbledore, too, fears that others will use the Tournament to their own ends…but I do not have the best history with Defence professors. Quirrell, and then Lockhart…I would not have minded if Tonks had returned.

"Professor Snape, and Headmaster Karkaroff are both wary of him. But there is something to him…even if he _is_ Dumbledore's friend, I find him difficult to trust."

"I know him from the war, Harry," Lily Evans said. "He _is_ a good man, if a bit rough around the edges. He fought the Dark as hard as any of us, and helped train many, even non-aurors, like your dad. No one has a bad word to say about him. He is the best in his field."

"Did you hear me, when I sought to invoke your protection, on our second day of class?" he demanded, his voice sharp and taut as a harpstring: it could cut.

Again she sighed, tilting her head back to face the non-existent sky. "I remember," she said, voice quiet and sad. "It does seem the sort of exercise he'd put trainees—or even students—through. But I don't think Dumbledore knows that he did. He would not approve."

She frowned her own disapproval, turning back to him. "He might be a bit of a maverick, but his heart is in the right place. I think he sometimes forgets that not everyone around him is a dark wizard out to get him. I suppose he reminds me of someone, that way."

He did not like being compared to Moody, but he realised that she was not likely to listen to his suspicions.

"There is more besides, other than the Tournament, and how to keep Thor from entering, and a professor, he who you would have me believe harbours no ill intent towards me."

She wisely did not interrupt his highly-biased summary of the conversation to this point, nor point out that he had not mentioned any potential threat to her other son when speaking of the Tournament—it went without saying.

"Have you heard of sorcerers, Mother?" he asked, not facing her. "Thor made friends with the doctor who saved my life at the end of first year. He is a practitioner of a magic of which I have never heard. Do you know it?"

Something sparked in her eyes. "Then, they are not all lost. What auspicious news, although I have heard nothing concerning them in decades…or was it centuries?"

This was either that same problem with trying to fit human conceptions of time into the much longer lifespans of home, or the same vagueness of memory that Harry himself suffered. It didn't matter.

"You know of them?" he asked, leaning forwards to hear what she had to say.

"I have little information to offer you," she said, with a gentle laugh at the way he briefly slumped. "But I know that they are the keepers of many secrets, some of which your father was never able to unravel—that should tell you something on its own."

The guardians of a secret, old magic, older than wizardry, a mysterious force of guardians who kept to themselves. Mother had little more to contribute to his understanding of Stephen than further questions. But he did not much mind, despite this.

* * *

Stephen was initially of little conceivable use for them. Even the arrival of the delegations from the other two great magical schools of Europe did not change this fact. By that point, however, Stephen had somehow managed to always arrive at about the same time every week—he was a quick learner, to an alarming degree. _Prodigious_ , indeed! He was a quick study on just about any minor magic Loki could think of to throw at him to learn, which was somewhat galling. At the same time, he had to admit it was… _nice_ to have someone to confer with with such an intuitive and advanced knowledge of magic.

They were still far from being _friends_ , at least to Loki's mind. But Stephen, at least after the first three trips, started up a habit of checking on their future selves at least once a month. This set the count of how many times they had met awry. But their future selves seemed to trust him, and Stephen seemed to have some sort of fondness for those future selves, at least, which was almost the same as having a friendship built on no foundation at all. It was a castle in the sky, like Morgana's—an illusion, some books said of the phenomenon. But those were muggle books, and Loki was a master of illusions, anyway.

Plans for how to defeat either Riddle, or Thanos, did not make any progress in these brief stretches of time. Quite sensibly, Stephen was giving them time to acclimate themselves to his presence.

With Stephen's periodic stays in the Common Room to consider, it was doubtless just as well that Gryffindor House was not hosting the students of Beauxbatons. This did not stop disappointment running rampant through the boys' dorms, at least. The Beauxbatons students were mostly women, and very pretty girls at that. Fleur Delacour, in particular, attracted a lot of attention. Some people thought that she was a veela, which was absurd. She did have long, silvery-blonde hair, however, and she was stunningly, inhumanly beautiful. There might be some merit in the theory of her having veela blood in her, but Harry had never heard tell of any "non-human" being allowed to attend a school—there were some rumours that Hagrid and Flitwick were not entirely human, but the emphasis, here, fell on the word "entirely".

Dumbledore welcomed the two schools with his true gryffindor chivalry and good manners. Harry took more note of the fact that Madame Maxime was, indeed, not the sort of person you would mistake, being taller even than Hagrid, and quite handsome, she cut an imposing figure for the Hogwarts students, and kept her own in line with ease. Igor Karkaroff, too, was worth noticing, if only for the fact that he and Snape seemed to know each other. However, both of them seemed a bit wary of Moody who, despite being inherently suspicious, was nonetheless something of a marker for other suspicious people. Snape's suspicions were one thing, as Snape was above question. Karkaroff, on the other hand, was a wizard about whom Harry knew very little, except that he was the Headmaster of Durmstrang, and he seemed scared of Moody.

Oh, and also, apparently Krum was one of Karkaroff's students. Maybe he and Harry would have a contest of skill at some point. For now, Harry would prefer to slink through the shadows and avoid notice as much as possible.

With the delegations came the other Tournament judges, neither of whom Harry was particularly fond of. Bartemius Crouch was one, which made Hermione bristle. He foresaw much renewed talk of House-Elf Rights in the future, and wasn't her formation of S.P.E.W. enough? He'd spent an entire afternoon mocking her choice of names for the group, insisting that he could never join a group with such an absurd name (and that no one could possibly take it seriously), which had prompted Hermione to demand that he give her some examples of what else she could have called it. He had given her ten, off the top of his head, and she'd seethed, and dropped the issue, for the past couple of weeks. Now, inevitably, it would resurge.

And here was Ludo Bagman, beaming around at everyone, still very personable and popular, which was not the sort of person Harry ordinarily got on with. Sirius, perhaps, but there was an air of insincerity that clung to Ludo Bagman. He had a darker side, one he tried to cover up with his great, absurd degrees of affability. That was Harry's real problem with him.

That, and the Twins seemed to have decided to dislike him. Although they wouldn't answer when asked, they were often to be found glaring at Bagman's back, and trying to corner him. They'd seemed friendly enough with him at the World Cup. What had changed? Did they know something Harry didn't? Of course, they'd shunned _Harry_ , too, first year….

There were too many potential threats to keep an easy eye on. There were twenty new students each from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and Madame Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, and Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, and Moody. Harry could not have been jumpier. It was just as well that Stephen had appeared at the beginning of term, rather than after all the new arrivals had infiltrated Hogwarts. While Durmstrang stayed in their boat in the lake, the students of Beauxbatons were lodging in the Hufflepuff dorms. There was no escape from them, until they finally retreated for the night.

He and Hagrid had become somewhat estranged during the mess that was third year, when he'd been notably absent, but Harry still considered him a friend, and not just one of his professors. But he couldn't be trusted with secrets, which somewhat limited what the Trio could speak about with him. And Hagrid, further, seemed to have forgotten their existence, with the arrival of Madame Maxime. Apparently, love was in the air. Just spare Harry, already.

The professors, for the most part, gave them a week to adjust to the new arrivals, which was hardly enough time to "build bridges of cultural interconnectedness" or whatever Dumbledore had said in his speech on the night the delegations had arrived. Presumably, the students spent most of their time in their respective lodgings, practicing for the upcoming Tournament (in case they be chosen by the magical thinking cup).

The introduction of the Goblet of Fire was done with much fanfare, but Harry was less than impressed with its rather over-the-top appearance. A silver chalice, from which blue flames rose, forever burning, an eternal torch. It just put him even more in mind of the Olympics, and the Tournament, with Dumbledore's excessive talk of building bridges, and securing and sustaining peaceful relations, already did that well enough on its own.

He was a mite curious about how he was going to end up entered in this Tournament, however, when Fred and George couldn't get past. Even if someone (he shuddered at the thought) used mind-control to make him enter his name, they'd be foiled by Dumbledore's age line.

Unless, of course, he didn't count as too young. But that set off an avalanche of questions. He'd already known that this was what Malfoy had been talking about on the train, when he'd asked if Harry were going to enter. But now, with a much greater knowledge of what the Tournament entailed (because why would Dumbledore have informed them before the night the Goblet was introduced; that would just give them plenty of time to forget his warnings?). Harry had to consider everything anew.

The Tournament would (so they claimed) be much safer this year. Harry wasn't sure that he believed that, but even if it were…he had no great desire to enter.

Thor, on the other hand…this was a challenge, and therefore right up his alley. He wanted to ask Stephen to tail Ron, to ensure that he didn't enter himself. Because he would, and he might even be able to.

"You are not going to enter," he said, folding his arms and staring his brother down. "No one doubts that you are worthy of being the Hogwarts Champion—or at least, no one who understands. I suppose Ginny and Hermione might be among those who should know better, and yet still underestimate you, however I—"

"Of course they'd choose Ron," Ginny said, sounding offended that he'd doubted her loyalty. "He came to rescue me in the Chamber of Secrets, and he went into the Forest to try to find out more about the monster, and how to beat it, even though he's terrified of spiders. That's got to be good enough."

Harry paused. He should have realised that people might be listening; it was a silly oversight, but the need to watch out for Thor was an old, engrained habit, and he'd needed to give the speech as soon as possible, before Thor could give him the slip.

"Alright. Then maybe _Hermione_ doesn't realise that you're the living embodiment of heroic valour," he said, with what most people would mistake for sarcasm. "The point is that you shouldn't try to enter. There is no need for you to prove your _worth_."

The word, deliberately chosen. He could see Thor's jaw tighten, as common sense warred against that impulsivity that had doomed them so many times before. He needed to say something more.

"Please. Remember why you are here. I am _begging_ you not to risk your life senselessly. They say the Tournament is safer this year than ever before, but when has that ever been accurate for us? Think of first and second year. Hogwarts is said to be the safest place in Britain! Ha! _Please_ , Big Brother. True courage is—"

"I know what true courage is," Thor insisted, and stormed off.

How typical.

"What did you expect?" asked Ginny, which was a fair point, all on its own. But he hadn't forgotten, either, how it had felt, to have to watch him die, over and over.

Not to mention that if, by some miracle (could he use that word?) the Tournament passed him over, he did not want to be drawn in, as he once had, into the role of his brother's bodyguard.

"He listened to me, right?" he asked Ginny. She buried her head in her hands, and wouldn't look at him, so he sat down beside her, and put a hand gently on her back.

"I shall see to it that no harm befalls him," he promised her. "If I watch him constantly, there'll be no chance for him to even try."

Ginny looked up at him through a face streaked with tears. "You—you'll really do that? But when will you sleep?"

"Who needs sleep?" he asked with a tired smile. He'd gone more than a single day without sleep before. He knew that he could do it. "What significance is sleep, if Ron dies? You are not the only one to care what happens to him, you know."

She wrapped her arms round him in a crushing hug, saying, "Thank you. thank you. I know he probably wouldn't get past the age line, but—"

He didn't dare to move, even to speak. He had to wait until Ginny pulled away, still sniffling.

"Sorry. I may have got snot all over your robes…"

"It's fine, Ginny," he said. "I'm fine. Really."

Which may or may not have been true. The more relevant question was whether or not Ron would be fine.


	10. A Typical Hallowe'en

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry keeps Ron out of trouble, but, of _course_ Harry's chosen for the Tournament. Of _course_ he is.

He did not give Ron a chance to even make the attempt, which must have been his first success in keeping Thor out of trouble in…well, ever. He had, perhaps, shamed him into sense. Thor was never long angry, swift to forgive, it was not long after their latest quarrel before Thor sought him out, seeming contrite.

"I shall not enter my name, even had I a means," Thor told him, head bowed. "You have quite enough to worry about as it is, and the age line gives me pause. I would not wish to reveal myself. Even chosen what I risk is greater than I would gain. That is what you meant to say, is it not? You need not watch me, little brother."

His words, as they generally did, fairly _rang_ with sincerity. Polar opposites, as Harry had once judged for simpler reasons, in his dreams. But he just gave Thor a level stare in return.

"Be that as it may, I promised Ginny that I would watch you to ensure that you didn't even have the chance to. I have gone far longer than a single night without sleep."

He did not mention that he fully expected to be chosen for the Tournament, somehow or other, against all possibility, probability, and logic. Did the universe bend over backwards to thrust him into danger, or did it only seem that way?

"Then I shall keep vigil with you," Thor declared. Harry considered suggesting that they watch the Goblet together, but his name might even already be entered. How would he know?

"You're not thinking of keeping a constant eye on the Goblet, are you?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowed, and arms folded, as she stared them down. She was somewhat alarming, sometimes. Harry froze.

"No," Harry said, even as Ron said, "yes". He glanced over in Ron's direction.

"I think it's one of those things—people find it harder to work up their nerve to enter, if they know people are watching. You'd better stay away. Just because you aren't old enough to enter doesn't mean you should scare everyone else off," Hermione said, looking back and forth between them, as if astonished that Harry should be the one who understood. He wasn't _stupid_.

Nevertheless, he mused, "Well, all the school, plus the students of Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, and all the judges will be watching the Tournament. If having people watch you enter would scare you off, perhaps you don't belong in the Tournament. It seems a right spectator sport."

Hermione huffed, and tightened her arms across her chest. Then she sighed, and tried to run a hand through her hair, but it swiftly became entangled in her hair-bush. She scowled, yanking her hand free with a wince, and lost track of what she was going to say.

She sat down on the sofa across from them, on the other side of one of the corner worktables of the room. Fred and George were often to be found here, poring over some parchment or other—not the Map, some sort of top-secret project that Harry kept intending to ask them about.

"How _do_ you suppose the Goblet chooses the champions? I mean, it's just an inanimate object. At least the Sorting Hat can read minds, but none of the champions would ever even touch the Goblet."

Harry clasped his hands under his chin, leaning on them, thinking. It was a fair question, especially if he wanted to figure out how not to be entered.

"Perhaps it analyses your handwriting," he said. "Even muggles believe that a person's handwriting tells a lot about their character."

Hermione shook her head. "But think about it, Harry: if that's true, there's bound to be a lot of people with very similar handwriting styles entering at the same time—Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will have carefully chosen the students they brought, to ensure as many good candidates for the Hat to choose from as possible. It would mean that a lot of people with very similar handwriting would all be entering…I'm not sure I believe in handwriting analysis, however."

Perhaps too similar to palmistry, hmm? He cast about for another theory.

"Sympathetic magic," he said, at last. Hermione frowned, a slight twitch in her left eye at the thought of there being an entire form of magic she'd never heard of. He pretended he didn't see. "Sympathetic magic combined with nominal magic—the magic of names, you know? We already know the power of names, I'm sure. ' _What's in a name_?', indeed?" he glanced at Thor to see if he took the unspoken message. He seemed to, and Harry shrugged, and continued, "Names carry quite a bit of power on their own, and they're directly connected to their bearers.

"That magic of names…and this is a hypothesis, mind you… it would create a sort of entryway into the mind and soul of the one who bore that name. A connection strengthened by the fact that that person touched the piece of paper that they threw into the Goblet—whatever sweat, or blood, or maybe even dead skin, remained left behind on that paper. _That's_ sympathetic magic. Like voodoo dolls. You need a piece of a person as a conduit—that's how Polyjuice works too, remember? That bond would give the Goblet a way of reading the past thoughts and actions of its candidates. I can't imagine how that would work."

He resisted the sudden urge to return to the Great Hall, and study the Goblet of Fire with his seventh sense opened. Like the Room of Requirement, perhaps such a singular object deserved his full respect.

"That sounds really complicated…and difficult," Hermione said, biting her lip. Harry stared straight ahead, deep in thought, hands crossed, now, in his lap. It was only a hypothesis. His best guess, working with very little information. He wished he knew better.

"Entering constitutes making a magically binding contract," Hermione murmured. "I wonder what that means. I do wish Dumbledore had told us more."

Harry glanced down at the soft carpet underfoot. "I suppose it doesn't matter how it works, does it? Isn't it inevitable that I'll end up chosen?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, again, staring him down. "Harry," she began, and he knew that she was about to scold him. He glanced at Ron again, wondering if Ron had understood even part of his complicated explanation. Did even _Hermione_ understand?

Maybe he was safe. Maybe, between the age line preventing him from being (he shuddered again at the thought) _mind-controlled_ and _forced_ to enter himself, and that bond being necessary for his entrance, he was, for once in his life, exempt from the danger. He fully intended to stay as far away from the cup as he could until the champions were chosen tomorrow night, however. Not that it mattered: he had told Ginny he would watch Ron, and he intended to make good on that promise. It also gave him something of an alibi, which was a bonus. But…suppose he was _wrong_? Tomorrow, after all, was Hallowe'en, the holiday of doom.

* * *

Fred and George were having trouble finding a way to enter themselves. Harry helped with this by cheerfully insinuating himself into their conversation early the next morning. There were benefits to staying up all night, but cheer was not one of them: his was false cheer, the kind reserved for difficult situations to distribute the load they brought with them somewhat. Professor Lupin did the same thing.

"Hello, Greg, Ford," he said, nodding to one of them, and then the other. He didn't much care which was which. Like Crabbe and Goyle, they weren't individuals. They were a package lot.

"That's a new one, don't you think, Gred?" asked the first one he nodded to.

"It certainly is, Forge, " said the second one. They both turned to face him at the same time, which would have been disconcerting had they been two different people. "What can we do for you, little bro.?"

Harry glanced around the room. Ron had set himself the task of sentry duty, but didn't seem to be eavesdropping. He sat down in a third chair, twisting it inconspicuously so as to keep Ron in sight even as he spoke with the Twins. He gave them a pleasant smile.

"I was looking for a distraction from tonight's exciting news. I see that you haven't managed to fix that aging potion."

Forge scowled. "Yeah, well, we've given up on entering. We're rooting for Angelina."

Harry blinked. "You mean she entered?"

"A few hours ago. Weren't you paying attention?" Gred asked. He sounded scandalised. She was a fellow quidditch team member. But Harry hadn't realised that she was over seventeen. Just how many such students were there in Hogwarts, anyway? Everything about this Tournament struck him as unfair.

"Huh. Alright. I'll support her nomination," he said, nodding. "Would you care to tell me what Ludo Bagman has done to incur your wrath?"

Forge gave a nervous little laugh. "Now whatever makes you think that we don't like our good chum Ludo, little bro.?"

Harry folded his arms. "I have eyes? You glare at him and mutter under your breaths whenever he's around. You were all smiles at the World Cup—whatever happened?"

Gred tapped his finger against the table, a fast-tempoed little rhythm. "Oh, alright. Just because we think so highly of you. He didn't hold up his end of the deal. We bet that Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the snitch."

"Exactly what happened," Forge interjected. Gred nodded.

"And that's exactly what happened," he echoed. The tapping was getting more frantic. It was becoming distracting. "You see, he never paid us our winnings."

"More than that, the git never even _returned our money_. Turns out, he's already deep in gambling debts with goblins."

Ah, so _that_ was Bagman's dark secret. It could have been worse. Cross him off the list, he supposed. He leant back.

"So, you're blackmailing him? Is Wizarding Britain so backwards that you feel you have to resort to fighting crime with crime?" No, he was not preaching. At all.

"What choice do we have?" Forge snapped. "We can't let Mum know that we're saving our funds for a joke shop, and without an adult in our corner, we can't really take any _legal_ course of action—"

"Sirius would help you," he said. "He might be able even to contribute some funds to your project. He loves pranks. Dunno if he'd fight Bagman for you, but you could ask him for help. He told me he was going to go to muggle law school, although he never got even his undergraduate degree. Still, he might have some advice."

They turned and stared at him. Why did everyone act as if he couldn't think?

"Sirius Black was going to go to a muggle university?" one of them at last asked. Was it _that_ surprising? What better way to snub his parents' pureblood beliefs than to get a respectable muggle profession, the hard way?

"He was going to study _law_ before they threw him in jail? That's kind of ironic…."

That was a good point, at least.

"Shall I send him a letter from the two of you?" he asked, with a smile that suggested he quite deliberately had somehow missed what they'd just said. They were smart enough to know better than to repeat themselves.

"I do believe we owe you again, for this favour. Don't think we've forgotten first year."

Harry frowned at the reminder. "Don't think _I've_ forgotten first year. You two are too brilliant at the pranking business not to get your chance."

He stood up before they could say any more stupid things, returning over to Ron, who was still keeping watch, and not that much worse the wear for lack of sleep. Go figure.

Still, at least he'd forgotten about the choosing of the champions, for a few minutes.

* * *

Hallowe'en was not considered a day off at Hogwarts, although you would expect it to be, especially this year. That it fell on a Monday meant that people were even more resentful: it would have been easy to extend the weekend. Harry was even more distracted than the rest of them. Short of ditching his classes, he realised that he would never have been able to keep a constant eye on the Goblet of Fire. He could only keep a watchful eye on his brother because they had all the same classes.

Hardly anyone was concentrating on school—by lunchtime, most of the professors had got the metaphorical memo, and were allowing the students to do what they would have done anyway—gossip about who would turn out to be the champions for each school, particularly Hogwarts, whose students they knew best.

"Krum is the obvious choice," said Seamus, "and then…I dunno."

"How about Angelina?" Harry asked, and Seamus started. Was it _that_ incredible that Harry would address someone on his own?

"Angelina Johnson?" he asked. "Did she enter? I thought she was…I dunno, sixteen?"

"The Twins said that she entered," Harry said, with a shrug.

Dean and Seamus both turned to shoot him disbelieving stares. That was getting really old, really fast.

"You believed them?"

Harry smiled. Was that all? "I have a knack for knowing when people are pulling my leg," he said, glancing sidelong at Ron, the only person who would be expected to make more of his statement than was readily apparent.

Hermione huffed, but ignored the conversation. Indeed, she stayed out of the speculation entirely. She was, true to form, studying up on historical protests and reform in wizarding society. Operation _Spew_ was entering its second phase. Almost the only good thing about being volunteered for a death gauntlet was that he could legitimately say that he had more pressing concerns than Hermione's civil rights movement. How could he even discover how house-elves felt, or to what extent their natures corresponded to human ones? Was Dobby an anomaly, or precocious, ahead of his time?

Perhaps he should leave the moral battles to Hermione and Ron, and stick to trying to keep himself alive and to keep madmen from killing huge swathes of people. When did his life become _this_?

Unfortunately, he could pretty much pinpoint the answer to that question.

Night fell soon enough, far too soon, after a surprisingly long time for the shortening autumnal days. Time rushed in fits and stops. It picked up speed after classes let out for the day, and then crawled again for the Hallowe'en Feast. Harry was relieved to see that Sir Nick was spending this deathday at the Gryffindor Table. As far as he was concerned, the last Hallowe'en he truly remembered was the one on which Mrs. Norris had been petrified.

Without him realising it, his gaze drifted to Ginny. She'd recovered from those events much better than he. All he had gotten from the experience was Riddle's true name, a basilisk fang, and the Sword of Gryffindor. And the time was coming that he'd have to ask to borrow the Sword of Gryffindor. Such a contingency was inevitable, but it was rather vexing that the need should arise less than two years after he'd acquired the sword.

Of course there was always a chance, however slim, that it wouldn't be needed.

Ha. As if.

His intuition had been warning him for over a month, and it was generally right about these things. He didn't need further warning.

The Goblet of Fire must have some manner of keeping track of time, because it waited until after dinner to start spitting blue sparks. It even waited until after Dumbledore's dramatic introductory speech (or he knew that it was about to react, in whatever way he seemed to know everything). Harry didn't know whether it was Dumbledore and the Heads of the school who set a prearranged time for the Goblet of Fire to make its decisions, or whether it had always been set to the same date and time, which was also a possibility, and suggested that Hallowe'en had been an unlucky date for plenty of others—perhaps those slain in previous tournaments.

Whatever the case, the Goblet started sparking soon after Dumbledore completed his speech. He didn't seem surprised, but then he had said that he estimated that it required about one more minute to complete its analyses, in pretty much those exact words. Regardless of who had chosen the time, he had _some_ way of judging when it was about to react.

Blue _sparks_. Life wasn't just laughing at _Harry_. Of course, Ron was carefully looking at the tablecloth whilst fiddling with a fork, so….

Hermione, by contrast, seemed to have forgot to breathe, again, staring, unblinking, at the sparking cup. Harry wanted to remind her of the importance of breathing, but didn't quite dare. Any noise made sounded twenty times louder in this utter quiet.

"The Champion for Durmstrang…is Viktor Krum."

No one clapped harder than Karkaroff at this news, although many tried. There were quite a few cries of how obvious a choice he was for the Tournament, and Harry had the sudden suspicion that all those other Durmstrang boys had just been brought for show…or worse, as nothing but a bodyguard or support for Krum. Certainly, Karkaroff didn't seem to hold any of them in any sort of regard.

Krum did not seem to hear the wolf whistles and cheers from his adoring fans, but his strut might have been slightly stiffer than usual as he walked out of the hall. Of course, that could just be realisation sinking in as to just what he'd signed up for.

But, before they could discuss the matter, or the hall could quieten again after this first round of excitement, the Goblet spat out another small piece of paper. Dumbledore looked down at it, announcing: "The Champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour."

"Ah…the other girls all look so disappointed," Hermione said. Harry glanced over them, to ignore the much louder wolf whistles and catcalls that accompanied and tailed the French Champion. Dejected was an understatement: many of the girls were in tears. As were some of the boys.

Quite a few gryffindors glared at Hermione for breaking the tension. She squirmed, and fidgeted, and fell silent.

"And the Hogwarts Champion…is Cedric Diggory," Dumbledore finished.

Even Harry felt inclined to cheer. Cedric Diggory…yes, he was a good choice. He had a great deal of honour and chivalry, and was a genuinely good person. Harry smiled and applauded, and Fred and George glared at him, but clapped politely all the same. Harry bit his lip to keep from saying that he'd been a better friend to Harry than they had, which was only true in some respects.

"Well, now the Champions have been chosen. I hope that you will support all three of them in this tournament, and that you make those who were not chosen feel welcome and wanted here in Hogwarts, regardless. I needn't stress that I expect everyone in this school to respect all of the Champions, and—"

He paused, cutting himself off for the first time that Harry could remember, and an unpleasant shiver stole up his spine. It could not have been clearer why he had stopped, for the Goblet was spitting fire again. Another paper erupted from the flames, and Dumbledore caught it, his hand movements jerky, almost involuntary, as if automatic. Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

"Harry Potter," Dumbledore said, in a voice quite different from his usual pleasant one. It was cold, and rang against the Hogwarts stones. Harry didn't move. How could he?

He'd known it was coming, sort of, but, as he had so often, he'd tried to talk himself out of that knowledge. As it was, he was less than prepared.

"But I didn't _enter_ ," he protested, suddenly able to move. He sprang to his feet, anger at the injustice of it all already beginning to kindle.

"Professor, there must be something—" Hermione began, eyes filling with tears. Ron glanced over at Harry, hands in fists on the table, until he remembered the fire hazard, moving his hands to under the table, where fewer people would see them shoot sparks, if that was what it came to.

"I'm afraid there is no choice," Dumbledore said. "We will discuss this more in the other room."

Dumbledore stood, along with Crouch and Bagman. Harry stood where he was, determined to fight this thing, until Dumbledore said. "Your cooperation and presence in our discussion would be most informative and helpful, Harry."

Harry's shoulders slumped, because Dumbledore had a point. He'd need to be there to defend himself, and going to the Champions debriefing room wasn't agreeing any more than being volunteered was. He shot Ron a significant glance, turned to Hermione, glanced at Ginny, who looked as if she had folded in on herself, and might have forgotten to breathe, sitting still as a statue with her hands in fists, just like Ron, and then trudged out of the room, following Dumbledore. Of course this would happen. It was Hallowe'en, after all. He couldn't expect a different outcome.


	11. Accidental Secrets Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the latest Hallowe'en, Harry, Thor, and Stephen step up preparations and training, and Thor finally discovers that Lily Evans is (sort of) his mother. Also, Harry talks with Rita Skeeter about Riddle before the Weighing of the Wands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **author's note:** And, after what I said about adding scenes of Ginny, all I've done is add one segment of her in chapter 89, and an unrelated segment involving Stephen in this chapter? _What_.

It would end up being determined that Harry would have to compete. He knew that, of course. He knew the inevitability of it. It was probably also reasonable to predict that Snape would follow him into the debriefing room to defame him before the judges, and make it seem that this was all according to some plan of Harry's. He had to see about sitting Snape and his Mum down for a nice, long chat, one of these days.

McGonagall was a less understandable choice, but perhaps she was at last ready to jump to Harry's defence instead of his condemnation. Harry could hope, although it didn't matter, one way or the other. This time, she had no power to save him. Maybe that was why she was bothering to be here, or maybe that was unfair to her.

Moody, despite also not being invited, was also a fairly predictable choice. He'd have to be there, as unofficial sentry of the Tournament. Perhaps he also had sinister designs for Harry that were coming into fruition. Was his speech about whoever had entered Harry into the Tournament hoping he would die from it a hint? Where was Moody yesterday? Perhaps he and Ron should have tailed the man…funny how sometimes the best of ideas only occur after the fact. It would have meant ditching classes, but of what concern was that to him?

_"Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school," Snape said. Did he_ _honestly_ _believe that Harry had entered himself? For what? The attention? People stared and whispered enough as it was, and Harry needed space alone to think and plan for the future—the defeat of Voldemort, the war against…well, a certain purple giant._

_"Someone who wants to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple," said Madame Maxime, as if this were a game at a fair, instead of a life-or-death tournament._

_"Binding magical contract," Moody said. "He's got to compete._ _They've **all** got to compete._ _Convenient, eh?"_

Convenient for whom? Harry wanted to know. Convenient for Moody, perhaps?

That night, instead of a quick glance, he stared into the Foe-Glass beside his bed, studying it carefully. There had been three vague figures there since the beginning of the year, but they were only now opaque enough that he could see that they were three individuals, and not one. One of them was probably Riddle, another Wormtail…but that remained to be seen. The manual said that as the threat level increased, and as the time of their impending confrontation came closer, the figures grew more distinct. It was possible, if rare, for the figures to diminish, fading away entirely. But that was rare, the sort of thing that only happened to owners who went out of their way to cut deals and placate the unhappy. Such people rarely purchased Foe-Glasses.

Despite the injustice of it all, and despite that he was only fourteen, he was bound into the same rules as the other, official Champions. He could neither ask for nor receive help from any adults, and he must remain ignorant of the coming challenge coming sometime in the middle of November. The whole thing was so galling that it took him some time, even after he marched off to bed without wishing anyone good night, to get to sleep.

Now that the threat of the year had truly revealed itself, Mother was more inclined to take charge, amongst her fretting. She reminded him of all the healing and defensive magic she had ever taught him—seriously, all of it that she'd _ever_ taught him—and then they'd had a discussion concerning the tasks. He'd insisted that her protective armour would do more harm than good in these sorts of situations—the last thing he wanted was to call attention to his special circumstances, which is what the armour would do.

By contrast, it would confer very little benefit that couldn't be approximated by a strong shield of some sort, combined with the same energy that was in the armour staying just under his skin, as they'd tested out in Moody's class. The problem with that, one of them, anyway, was the fact that his mother's protection remaining in that interstitial state of potentiality meant that the burning that usually faded as the armour solidified would stay as that constant, hand-on-a-hot-stove sensation from Moody's class. But Harry could work through pain. He would do whatever it took to ensure that his connection to Mother remained strong; he wasn't risking her for anything.

The next morning, the thought occurred to him to use Sirius's gift to keep him informed of the situation. He might not have given them the forewarning about the Tournament, but he was still new to all of this, which meant that Harry was willing to overlook that oversight, this once. Sirius was more than a bit alarmed to hear that Harry had been chosen (and this despite not entering himself), and said that he would confer with Professor Lupin, and comb through the nasty Black archives, in search of useful information. Harry had to be grateful for that.

He stepped up his practice with Thor, and spent much time in the library researching wizarding spells, and trying to find equivalents to useful tactics he knew from the _other_ sort of magic. Neither complained about the extra work he was making for them. Ron was, if possible, more concerned about the Tournament than Harry was.

Stephen arrived, as usual, three days later. Harry wished that he'd asked Stephen to return halfway through his usually allotted week, just so that they could monitor the Goblet of Fire.

"You're still in the future," Stephen said. "The tournament didn't kill you, then. As long as you take it seriously and stay on top of things, you'll be fine."

Somehow, this was more of a relief to Thor than Loki.

Stephen now committed himself to discussing what he'd learnt of self-defence at Kamar-Taj, and discussing healing spells with him.

This was how Thor learnt that Harry had access to Lily Evans on a monthly basis.

"Did I forget to mention that?" Loki asked, cocking his head. They'd discussed quite a few things since the big reveal last year.

"Yes," Thor said.

"Did it perhaps also slip my mind to inform you that Lily Evans, my Mum, is also _Mother_?" he asked. Thor stared.

"I assume that that is a 'yes'."

Something unfamiliar crossed Thor's features, an old shadow, perhaps, a lurking threat he'd once thought vanquished. Thor had rarely had cause to be jealous of _him_.

"You speak to Mother," he said. "Mother, who died, whom I have not seen nor spoken to in fifteen years. And you neglect to mention this to me, your only brother, even after I told you the truth—"

"I had other thoughts in my mind," Loki said, with a deliberate, flippant carelessness. A part of him wanted Thor to be jealous, to be bitter, to be hurt at being left out, to feel even a bit of what had driven Loki away from his family, but….

"I'll just… wait over here," Stephen said, backing away from the confrontation. He could hardly be blamed for not wanting to get involved. This was the politest way of bowing out.

"Brother," said Thor, his voice pitched lower in warning. Loki sighed.

"I honestly forgot," he said. "There were many other things to think and speak of. I assumed that I had said something, until you seemed surprised by Stephen's comment about healing. Mother has been teaching me. If you are about to die, I now know how to heal you, instead of hoping to channel enough lifeforce into you to keep you alive."

Thor's eyes widened, and his jealousy, such as it was, was defeated by the direct reference.

"You ought to visit home…. It hardly seems right that the doors to home should be barred to you. You are the Crown Prince, after all, and have fully proven your worth, unlike me. But Stephen has already said that he will help us to save as many as possible. And did you not travel back in time to save Mother? You shall see her again. I will see to that. However, in the meantime—"

"Loki, don't—" Stephen began.

"—I once managed to bring her into the physical world. I used the Mirror of Desire as a channel. I know that I can do that again. If you wish to speak to Mother, you need only ask."

The drain would be enormous, but he had deeper reserves, now; he could afford it. Clearly, however, those reserves weren't as deep as he might like. It was clear that Stephen's outburst was due to his awareness of the high cost of using so much magic as that would.

Thor stared at him, for a very long time. He turned to Stephen, as if sensing that he was missing something. Because he knew Loki too well to think that he would share what that was, he addressed Stephen, instead.

"Doctor Strange," he said, his voice ringing with that undercurrent of command that had people listening to what he ordered without even realising that they were. Stephen was not immune. Were he not full of arrogance tempered into mere self-confidence, he would probably have shifted uncomfortably. Instead, he looked as if he'd been backed into a corner, but was still ready to put up a fight…

…to the extent that a pacifist ever did, that was.

"Using that much magic is highly draining. Sustaining it for any length of time is the reason he was out cold that one day after Christmas of first year. Even now, it would drain a huge chunk of his energy, even for a brief conversation. Something happened in '98 that made it a bit safer for him to try stupid shit like that. Wait for that."

"Brother?" Thor asked.

"The offer stands," Loki insisted, leaning back against a wall, as if for an extended conversation. Thor seemed troubled.

"I will not endanger you for such selfish cause—"

"How _noble_ of you," Loki said, as if he couldn't resist baiting him. Stephen looked as if he were considering wandering off back to Gryffindor Tower—or just appearing there via Sling Ring. (Those things were highly unfair: apparently they had no unfortunate side effects, like dizziness or the feeling of being compressed and pulled along by a bungee cord attached to your belly.) Hermione and Ginny would probably be much better companions at such a time.

Thor walked over to clap Loki, hard, on the shoulder, in a moment that tried to remind him of something, _what_ wouldn't come clear, which was suspicious, as that probably meant that it dated from that period of time that was muzziest in his mind. He didn't pursue the memory.

"Save your energy, Brother. You will need it for the months ahead. I shall attempt to be more grateful that I have my brother back. I have much to be thankful for. We will fix the future, together."

"Yeah. Count me in on that. Since I came up with that idea, and all," Stephen said.

"And Hermione," Loki said.

"Naturally," Thor said, seeming perplexed.

"And Sirius, I think," Loki continued, more thoughtful, now.

"As you think best," Thor said, and Loki glared at him.

"None of that. What I said to Malfoy on the train is true: _you_ are the leader. You are the Crown Prince—"

"You are my brother," Thor protested, bringing up that same argument from three hundred years ago, or whatever. There was plenty of cause for them both to keep returning to that night, including the fact that it was one of the few events that they both knew they both remembered.

"You will be our master strategist and leader, and I will make corrections as necessary—"

"This is your quest," Thor insisted, in full earnestness mode. He was particularly insufferable at those times, because you couldn't even accuse him of superciliousness or hypocrisy. "You must lead."

"I think I would work better as the royal advisor," Loki protested.

"Well, all this sibling bonding stuff is very sweet, and kind of sappy, but can we get back to the point, now?" Stephen asked. He'd come away from the corner to approach the sofas in the middle of the Room. Next time, it would probably give them a battle strategy table—one of those with a map scrolled across the top and little markers. He didn't know what use they'd make of it, but he was confident that the Room would do an impressive job. It never did things by halves.

"Warrior cultures have some of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard of," Stephen muttered. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm a doctor."

"Your lack of comprehension makes complete sense," Loki said. "You were not raised as we were."

"That ' _show no weakness'_ thing is shit," Stephen insisted. "Studies have shown—"

"It's a battle chant," Loki said, waving a hand. "It is intended to maintain morale and group coherence."

"And you two always bring it up as if it's a motto to live by," Stephen said. " _That's_ what I'm talking about. We humans have made a lot of progress over the past twenty years, as far as getting men to have emotions, and show them. You should research it, in twenty years. Your machismo isn't useful."

He leant forwards towards the table, and a sheet of parchment appeared there. And a quill. And a bottle of ink.

"Would a fountain pen be asking too much?" he asked the Room.

"Thor is the quintessential Asgardian youth; Mother told me that—"

"When was this?" asked Thor, with an almost sort of polite indifference.

Loki paused. "About five hundred years ago, I believe." Thor seemed to find this acceptable enough not to interrupt again, so Loki rounded on Stephen. "I _am_ human, you know."

Stephen paused. "Your Mom's a goddess in human form—an avatar, as I told Thor three years ago—and you're the reincarnation of a god, yourself, complete with memories and some of your old abilities. Hate to break it to you, but you're not _entirely_ human. I can't do half the shit you can do right now, because I'm not the right _species_. I can do even _less_ of the shit you can do twenty years from now, because you're always learning and creating new things. Don't give me that nonsense about just being a human teenager."

That was not the last time that argument arose; indeed, many of these same quarrels would recur in varying forms at regular intervals for the next twenty years. They became something like cornerstones, constants, almost reassuring in their formulaic nature. This ended up confusing both Director Fury and the Avengers quite a bit. For now, however, they were sources of discord and friction, to be ironed out. No progress could be made in their evil plans to save the universe until everyone's feathers were smoothed down, and they were back on the same page.

First priority: what to do about the Tournament.

* * *

Stephen, for his part, was a bit at a loss, still trying to gain his footing in an ever-shifting reality. He was realising that there was a very good reason that time travel should be used sparingly. He found it was impossible to keep track of what he had and hadn't told his…"friends", as what he thought he remembered telling them changed with every visit. What, for instance, was the location known as "Woodfield Palace", which he had, allegedly, told them about in that first meeting during fourth year, but had no memory of having done? He remembered speaking to them about "Patchwork Palace", instead.  
It took three journeys back in time before he realised that the difference between the conversations that he remembered having with them, and the ones they remembered—the "real" conversations, were mostly in small details, different words, different names, whilst the essences of the conversations remained as he remembered. Or, thought he remembered. Apparently, they had never happened at all, even though he remembered them—had not even happened in an overwritten timeline. Still, he could almost keep up.  
He was free to come and go from Kamar-Taj as he pleased, but he always had to figure out what to do about the Cloak of Levitation in the meantime. It didn't like being left alone. He'd sometimes roped in one of his friends (usually Wong), to babysit it.  
He tried his best to keep the essence of the conversations with Thor and Loki well away from the Time Stone and sorcerous relics, but he couldn't be sure of what he had told them in any given conversation, what they knew. He could not risk them discovering that he had the Time Stone.  
Indeed, such thoughts occupied a great deal of his mental focus that he would prefer to be fixed elsewhere. The good thing about interacting with his friends' future selves was that he could change those conversations. He was building up a list of the most ridiculous "tells" that had given away his secret to (usually) Loki, in this conversation or that. As long as that conversation lay on his side of time, his knowledge of how the conversation had truly gone meant that he could backtrack, if he made a mistake, and detour the conversation. It sometimes made for awkward conversation—and being told the same stories, and hearing the same arguments, told in the same words, more often than he would like. And, he knew that one of the mistakes that always piqued Loki's suspicion was when he failed to hide that he'd heard these stories before. He always knew.  
He affected a sort of mystical air, and said, early on: "There's some things that you mustn't know about, for your own good."  
Loki sometimes seemed to have a lie-detecting sense. It was how he knew when Stephen was hiding his own boredom with familiar conversations. The "for your own good" defence passed muster enough, until Loki inevitably figured things out some other way, and Stephen had to backtrack, and endure the same conversations again. It still limited Stephen's efficiency somewhat, especially in the past, where, for whatever reason, he couldn't overwrite previous conversations. If he'd been there in the past, he knew was part of the reason, then a future version of himself was already there. It must be that the Time Stone couldn't be in more than two places at the same time.  
Which made some sense, but made Stephen wary and Loki-level of cautious.

***

The first stage of the Tournament was, apparently, a quasi-ceremonial function known as "The Weighing of the Wands", which was there to ensure that their wands were in fully-functioning order, which was rather silly, considering that they still had a couple of weeks until the mysterious First Task. And would this be repeated before each of the Tasks? No, apparently not. That idea would make too much sense.

Still, he was grateful to be called out of Potions before Snape could threaten him anymore, or make him drink poison, or some such. For all that he claimed to be looking out for Harry (or rather, for all that others made that claim for him), he seemed still to be doing his best to do away with Harry, instead.

Of course, The Weighing was not exactly relaxing, either. For one thing, this was where and how he at last made the acquaintance of the Wizarding World's première libeler, one Rita Skeeter. His previous knowledge of her let him know that he'd best be wary of her, even had she not been _oozing_ false charm, and actual confidence.

Cedric Diggory barely had time to ask Harry whether he had, in fact, entered himself, before Skeeter was dragging Harry away. He was in something of a daze, still, from being unexpectedly called away to be photographed. The reprieve from Potions was nice, the paparazzi, less. At least Rita Skeeter didn't bring her pet photographer with her.

She set them down in a "cosy" broom closet, closing the door behind them, and sitting on an upturned bucket. Harry had to wonder if she were quite sane, and that was saying something, coming from him.

"I don't suppose you'd mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? Just to take notes; it frees up my attention so that I can focus on the interview. No? Great!" she said, in a rush, before Harry could even ask what a "Quick-Quotes Quill" was.

It was a bright green feathered monstrosity of some sort, covered in interwoven spells, which Harry skimmed over when he first sat down, out of sheer spite. Then, he saw what it was writing—some nonsense about him crying about parents he'd never known, and he opened his seventh sense, to better examine the spells.

Good thing he could multitask—not that he'd open his seventh sense more than he had to: it was too distracting, and he would have a great deal of trouble splitting his attention three ways. How to concentrate on the interview, and dismantling or rearranging the quill, _and_ what Skeeter was writing?

He made as if he were looking down at the ground, instead of at her paper, as she began to ask him all sorts of rather biased and inaccurate leading questions. You'd think she _wanted_ him to be the juvenile delinquent that Uncle Vernon claimed he was, or the supervillain he had been.

That hit a bit too close to home, and he redoubled his efforts, reattaching the threads of magic that connected the quill to Skeeter's mind to her superficial thoughts—a sort of stream of consciousness meandering tale was the goal, here, ideally one in which she confessed something nasty about herself, or otherwise damned herself before her readers. Best case scenario: she was published without having the chance to edit, and thereby showed the public her true colours. Worst case scenario, however, was still good enough: this interview would be ruined. What could she make of it?

And meanwhile, maybe he could give her something else, something to make her useful to him.

"Worried?" he repeated, tilting his head. "No, not really. I've some experience in these matters, you know. The school's turned against me, again, but that's normal, too. They've done that every year except last year, which was atypical, anyway. I do usually have a bit more time before they turn on me like vultures, but hey!, that's the price of fame. By now, I'm resigned to it. But don't get me wrong—while I'll do my best, on account of that 'unbreakable magic contract' thing, I'm rooting for Cedric Diggory, too. I owe him, after all. He was one of the few people who defended me when the Chamber of Secrets was opened a couple of years ago."

Rita Skeeter looked positively giddy, rapturous with happiness at the prospect of _this_ story.

"'The Chamber of Secrets'?" she repeated, leaning in. "Then, it isn't just a legend?"

He cocked his head. Had that not been in the news? How had they covered it up?

"It's quite real," he assured her. "In my second year, a bunch of students were petrified, including one of my best friends. A message first appeared on Hallowe'en—that's usually when things start going wrong for me—saying that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. 'Enemies of the Heir, beware'."

Rita Skeeter gave an exaggerated shiver, and he nodded. She was fixated upon this new story, and had quite forgotten the libel she'd wanted to write about Harry.

"I've been down to the Chamber, myself. The entrance is difficult to find, but my other best friend and I went down into the Chamber with a professor, who turned out to be evil. He tried to obliviate us…it was awful. And I had to fight a basilisk after he died in a rockfall, and I got separated from the rest of my group. The basilisk was Slytherin's monster, who was being controlled by a piece of You-Know-Who's soul that had split off from the rest. That's how I know what You-Know-Who's real name is. I don't think it's common knowledge. He's ashamed of it, so he tries to pretend that he never had a name. That's because he's a half-blood. Did you know that?"

Skeeter's eyes widened. "I had no idea. How exciting! A basilisk? You must have only been about twelve years old. However did you survive?"

Harry beamed at her. "With some help from Dumbledore's pet phoenix, the Sorting Hat, and a lot of luck."

"And what's You-Know-Who's real name?" asked Skeeter. Inwardly, Harry smiled. This was what he'd been hoping for.

"His name's Tom M. Riddle. That 'M.' stands for 'Marvolo', his maternal grandfather. He was the Heir of Slytherin, but his dad was an ordinary muggle. He got special awards from the school for framing Hagrid, which was why he was expelled—you will keep that to yourself, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I believe one hundred percent in source confidentiality," said Skeeter, in her breeziest voice. "To think, the most feared wizard in the world has such a common name…why I find it positively incredible. I don't suppose you have any proof?"

Harry shrugged. "Hogwarts keeps old records in the library, but he was also given a trophy as reward for his 'Special Services'. He was quite popular in his day—Head Boy, Prefect, the works. Not Captain of Quidditch, but he had quite a fan club."

"I see," said Skeeter, pausing to digest this new information. That was when Dumbledore appeared, twinkling, to fetch Harry. Again, the persistent, nagging suspicion that Dumbledore knew everything that happened at this school, and that if he had allowed that interview, he'd wanted Harry to do just as he did.

Skeeter made some protests about her prey being snatched out of her claws, but she had to acquiesce— _official_ Tournament business came first, after all.

And Harry had not told her much about himself at all. He wondered when she would realise that.

The rest of the time was rather boring. Ollivander had been called in to test the functionality of their wands. Harry learnt thereby that Fleur Delacour _was_ part veela—she had a veela grandmother. Cedric kept his wand diligently polished and shining, which Harry had never troubled with. Indeed, he explained as much when Ollivander eyed it, noting the smudge marks and signs of wear.

"That just means that I use it," he said, shrugging. "Such wear is a sign of all that we've been through together. I respect those experiences too much to wipe away all trace of their occurrence. Although I did clean it after the dementor attack last school year. It was covered in mud; it had to be done."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right," said Ollivander. "A little wear or imperfection never decreased the beauty of a piece of art. No, not at all. Yes."

"Are you willing to tell me more about its component parts, now?" Harry asked, leaning forwards.

"Perhaps later, Mr. Potter. Yes, you have taken excellent care of it, despite superficial wear. Clearly a strong bond remains between the two of you—"

"Will you at least stay behind so that I can ask you more about wandlore?" he interjected, and Ollivander looked much harried and put-upon.


	12. The Real Hogwarts Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry retrieves the Sword of Gryffindor, and tries to make an alliance with Cedric.

The professors, for the most part, decided to cut him slack concerning his schoolwork, in light of his recent need to practise staying alive. The challenges the Champions were to face had all been decided beforehand; Harry was up against tasks intended for seventeen-year-olds, people with seven years of magical education under their belts (or at least six). Had things been different (had this not been a spectator sport), he would have been better equipped than the others. But, he couldn't use the _other_ magic without drawing dangerous scrutiny, which he must avoid at all costs. He had to protect Mother. And Thor.

Wasn't it enough that he had two prophecies hanging over his head? He didn't dare to use the _other_ magic in any noticeable manner, which meant that he needed to hit the library to study wizarding means of defence. Now, he had an excuse to drag Hermione in to study such spells. And, that wasn't the only thing he had an excuse to do.

He camped out in front of Dumbledore's Office a few days after the ceremony, arms crossed as he leant against the gargoyle, as if to push it over with his weight, slight as it was. He refused to stand here for fifteen minutes shouting the name of every candy he could think of. He was training with three different people in three different branches of magic (even _Stephen_ had been dragged into this, much to his dismay), but he knew that that wasn't good enough. If he wanted to win, or even just to survive, he needed familiar tools. He had the holly-and-phoenix-father wand. He had ever-increasing reservoirs of magic. And, he had an accumulating body of experience of fighting with "muggle" weapons. What he didn't have was a "muggle" weapon with which to fight, when the Task came. Or, rather, he did not _officially_ have one.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" snapped Snape, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry gave him a bright smile.

"Hello, Professor, sir. Good morning! I don't suppose you know the headmaster's password? I needed to speak with him about recent events."

Snape sneered. "The headmaster is a very busy man, Potter, and has no time for your foolish whims."

Harry cocked his head, studying him. Snape seemed rather more agitated than usual. "Is something amiss, sir?"

"Don't think I don't know who's been stealing supplies from my personal stores, Potter. That innocent act may work on your other teachers, but I—"

"Ah, Severus, Harry. I hope you haven't been waiting for very long. I thought I'd have a nice early breakfast, but it seems I got lost on the way to the Great Hall."

Dumbledore was one of those people who you rarely knew how much of what he said to believe. Most likely, he hadn't gotten lost, but who knew, with Dumbledore? He might have deliberately wandered off to some far-off, forgotten corner of the castle, and then the building had rearranged itself.

"I came here to report that Potter has stolen more ingredients from my private stores," Snape said, shooting Harry a particularly venomous look.

Harry sighed. "I swear that I have never even been inside your office. Nor have I ever felt inclined to rummage through your private stash of ingredients. I've had better things to worry about this year…sir."

It was the closest he'd come to showing overt disrespect to this particular professor, who seemed to recognize this fact. Things might have grown ugly, had Dumbledore not been right there.

"I will speak with you more on this matter later, Severus," Dumbledore said, a certain dimness in his usual twinkle. Perhaps that was what passed for brooding, with Dumbledore.

Professor Snape recognised his cue to leave, turning on his heel with a dramatic flair, and storming off.

"Someone has been stealing from Professor Snape's private stores?" Harry asked. "What's missing? How does he know?"

Any little clue might help him to piece this narrative together, but Dumbledore didn't seem to agree.

"That is a private matter," said Dumbledore. "You have told me that you did no such thing, and I believe you. But, why are we standing here, when I have an office with actual chairs? _Cauldron Cakes_."

Harry trudged up the stairs after him. By now, it had sunken in that the entire school had turned against him, again—bar Gryffindor, who were often to be found glaring daggers at anyone who disparaged Harry, with the occasional fight thrown in. They'd had a party to celebrate his nomination, but realised eventually that what he needed far more was to be left alone to think. Gryffindor had united with him against the rest of the school, which was both charming and alarming. Schools and their cliques, eh?

Dumbledore closed the door with a wave of his wand, once Harry was safe inside. "Are you here to discuss the Tournament?" Dumbledore said. "Sadly, despite your unfair circumstances, I am not allowed to share any details concerning the Tournament with you. I hope you understand."

"Give me the Sword," Harry said, glancing at the shining silver weapon hanging on the wall. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose: Harry was not usually this direct. Or rude.

"You said that I could borrow it again in some rather extreme circumstances. I will need _some_ time to practice. Lend it to me for the duration of the Tournament. It is more useful wielded by me than hanging on your wall. I promise that I will return it, when all is said and done."

Dumbledore sighed, steepling his fingers through his beard. He looked very old. "Yes. You're right. I remember promising you that. I had hoped that this day would never come…but if you are the rightful wielder of Gryffindor's Sword, then, as his champion, you deserve to wield it. You are not to bring it to classes, however."

"Got it," Harry said, barely paying any attention to what Dumbledore was saying. He had approached the wall without even noticing, hand outstretched.

"I am showing you a great deal of trust in this matter, Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry turned to him.

"I will not misuse it," he assured Dumbledore, before turning back to the wall. Dumbledore waved a hand, and the "sword" plummeted, sheath and all, towards the floor. Harry caught it in both hands, and stared at it. He'd forgot what it even looked like. Truly, a work of art. He was going to end up leaving the castle with both sword and fang, when he graduated. One way or another.

"Thank you, Headmaster," he said, with a smile. "That was all that I came here for."

Fawkes made a trill of protest, and he turned to the bird, who was watching the scene with rapt attention. "…Although I would be remiss, if I missed the opportunity to say hello to my friends, Guy and the Sorting Hat. Hello, Guy, you look well."

Fawkes gave a rather chirpy little trill, and puffed out his chest. Harry turned to the Sorting Hat. He knew that he would regret speaking to it.

"Perhaps, you might give the Sorting Hat my regards," he added, as Fawkes gave him a reproachful glare. "I should be heading to class."

He went to the door, and turned back to Dumbledore. "I do believe both prophecies are in the process of fulfilling themselves. I will not fail."

He opened the door, and left.

* * *

Hagrid might not have spoken a word to Harry since Madame Maxime's arrival, but he made up for it, somewhat, by warning Harry of the nature of the impending Task. _Dragons_ , of all things. Well, Hagrid might be pleased by this turn of events, but Harry thought it was life laughing at him, again. Though it might also be laughing at Hagrid. Norbert was a _girl_? But Hagrid didn't care; he clearly missed her, going all teary-eyed at the mere mention.

Harry headed back early, and began to process the news. He knew about the First Task. Madame Maxime knew, and she would tell Fleur. Karkaroff had been noted running back to the ship moored in the Black Lake. That left only one Champion: Cedric, Hogwarts's most decent person.

He had to know. For one thing, Harry had no real interest in winning this tournament—he was trying to avoid unnecessary casualties.

_And do you think that saving a few lives atones for those you have taken? Is redemption a matter of balancing out books?_

And, his internal judgemental monologue was frenetic in its analysis of his actions. But, if he could save the life of this boy who had defended him even to his own housemates…. No, not even for the sake of repaying a debt. For the reminder that there were, in fact, decent people in this world worth defending, too. That fact was far too easy to forget, with news filled with stories of criminals and wars. And that, in turn, that despair, that sense of the ruined world, made it easier to think yourself above people—squabbling, greedy things that they could become, if you didn't remind yourself that not everyone behaved thus.

A selfish choice, then. But, one he would make, regardless.

"I don't know how it happened—this bag is brand-new—"

"No matter. _Reparo_!" Harry cried, watching as the seam sewed itself back together. "More important: the First Task is dragons. I'm not sure exactly what to do with them, but we have to face them, somehow. I don't think they expect us to _slay_ the dragons, but be ready for that possibility, too, just in case."

Cedric stared at him, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Harry got that look a lot. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, we're on even footing, now, aren't we? Cedric, I don't want to _win_ , I want to make it through this year intact, preferably without encountering You-Know-Who again. Also, I sort of owe you for being such a decent person to me all the time."

"I'm sorry about all those badges. I've told them to lay off—"

Harry just shifted his weight, and smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'm used to Malfoy. Besides, you _are_ the real Hogwarts Champion. I don't know what I am, or how I got in, but I know that yours was the third name to come out. I suppose I'm just the spare."

Cedric was perhaps a bit unnerved by the fact that Harry managed to say all this while maintaining an even smile. "I'll let you know if I learn anything else," Harry said, before Cedric could reply, picking back up his own school satchel, and walking away. Cedric turned to glance at him, but walked off in a hurry. The professors probably were showing less lenity towards him.

He was on his way to his next class when Moody singled him out, yet again, to speak with him.

"That was a decent thing you just did there, Potter," he said, once the door to his office was closed behind Harry. Harry was thrown off-balance by this. He had been expecting a reprimand, or perhaps demands as to how _he_ knew what the First Task was.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, studying Moody.

"I heard you telling Diggory about the Task. That was mighty decent of you."

According to his lie-detecting sense, this was true. But all that meant was that Moody believed it.

"Thank you," he said, rather than destroy the man's illusions of his generosity. What else could he say? "Was that all, Professor?"

Please say "yes".

"I was wondering how you were coming along with your plans for the task. Dumbledore worries about you," Moody said, instead.

"I have some ideas, yes," Harry said, trying to sound more certain of himself than he was.

"You need to play to your strengths," Moody continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Don't forget that dragons can _fly_ , although these ones will be tethered, so they can't fly away or attack the spectators. Basic safety precautions, you know."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why Moody was telling him this. He was hardly about to forget that fully-grown dragons were capable of flying. Even Norbert had had his moments. Her moments. Whatever.

"I have a class right now, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice light and respectful. He couldn't afford to show his suspicion of the man; that would make him close up the holes in his mask, and it would be harder to gather evidence against him. Harry didn't know why this all had to be so complicated.

"You may go, Potter," he said, sounding rather irked about something. Harry fled.

* * *

Despite the innumerable preparations to be made concerning the First Task, he took some time off to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione. They'd arranged to meet Sirius there, at the pub known as the Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore was less inclined to judge them, and the clientele were more liable to overlook him than those of the Three Broomsticks. Last time anyone had taken a survey, Madam Rosmerta was still quite as flustered as Minister Fudge at the fact that she'd been wrong about Sirius Black. He was giving her her space.

Remus Lupin was staying at Sirius's childhood home, researching more about the Tournament, the repercussions of breaking the magical contract he _hadn't signed_ (thus far, sources suggested that it would strip him of his magic, which perhaps it couldn't, but why risk _that_?), and the tasks of previous years. There were three tasks, spread out through the year. The second one would likely be sometime in the middle of winter, and the last one, of course, in June. It was all laid out neatly for Harry's usual perils.

Sirius's concern was touching, as was the sheer volume of hours and work put in by both Sirius and Remus on this project. He'd have to tell them the truth. At some point. Probably this year. He refused to be one of those who kept putting off sharing a big, life-shattering secret with people who deserved to know. He'd received more than enough of that in just _one_ lifetime.

In the meantime, he and Sirius bored Ron to distraction discussing potentially useful spells. It was full of technical stuff that Ron didn't understand, or he would have appreciated the strategy behind it, instead.

Harry made sure to make plans to spend Christmas Break with Sirius, along with Ron and Hermione, before they left. He had a lot to think about, still, including what had been stolen from Snape's private stores, who had entered him into the Tournament, and how to go about surviving the First Task.

He'd also learnt quite enough about Bartemius Crouch to last a lifetime, including that he'd sent his own son to Azkaban after the boy was accused of being a Death Eater (by all accounts, he was barely out of school at the time), and that he had been responsible for _sending Sirius to Azkaban without a trial_.

If Harry had been suspicious of him before, he no longer was. That did nothing to curb a sudden intense antipathy towards the man. It wasn't only Sirius who had suffered for Crouch's actions, but Harry didn't have to be angry for his own sake, for that decade and then some taken from him. Sirius's staggered development and continued suffering from Azkaban were more than enough reason to hate the man.

He wondered how his poisonous influence might be negatively affecting Ron's sort-of older sort-of brother, Percy. Perhaps they should check up on him.

Harry had planned to drag Ron into shopping for robes during that trip, but there just wasn't the time. Instead, he asked Sirius to look for spares, and if none of them suited Ron, they'd have to go shopping at Diagon Alley during Christmas Break.

Which was more important: the question of how he ought to feel about Christmas, or the question of just _why_ they needed dress robes? Well, presumably he'd find the answer to the latter this school year without searching for it, which meant that, if he ever had the time, he'd have to turn introspective. Or ask Ron; it must be just as strange for him.

That brief window of a break was enough to revitalise him enough for him to throw himself back into various studies. Stephen had little to no experience with combat, but was learning quite a bit about offensive and defensive magic from both versions of Loki, past and present. Harry, in turn, could turn about and stack this knowledge on top of itself, regardless of whatever Stephen said about paradoxes. Who cared about those?

"Haven't you ever seen _Star Trek_?" Stephen groaned, as he stood up from the latest lucky blow. There were fewer of them, now; they were both improving at this whole _other_ magic versus sorcery thing. If it helped keep them both alive in the coming wars, it was worth a little sacrifice, here and there. The problem was that it was difficult to tell how much of it Stephen would retain. He came from an ever-changing future, after all.

Still, this entire Tournament was beginning to look a lot less hopeless, as were the coming wars. On a good day, at least.


	13. Dragons Breathe Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Task, and its aftermath.

The day of the Tournament dawned dim and blustery, reminding him of third year's disastrous quidditch match. He had to keep reminding himself that that was technically earlier this year. It felt _lifetimes_ ago. Even his memories of his past life felt closer to the surface, because they were genuinely separate from his memories of this life.

The judges called them down into a tent where the quidditch pitch usually was, and Bagman instructed them to wait there.

Well, that and he told them the information that they already knew—the Task was dragons, you had to fetch a golden egg from their nests without killing the dragon or breaking any eggs well, okay, those last few things were news. As was his explanation that they'd be drawing a small model of their opponents from a velvet pouch Bagman held out for them.

Harry reached into the bag last, and was therefore unsurprised when it revealed that his dragon was the most vicious of the lot—the Hungarian Horntail. What a surprise.

The number hanging around the dragon's neck told what order they'd be competing in. Harry was last. Of course. Still, he could make productive use of that time, planning.

He clutched the sword tightly in his right hand. He tried not to look at it. It would be less helpful than foreseen, in this Task. That didn't change the fact that he was grateful to have it.

 _Remember, Mother…no armour_.

He knew that she could hear him. Anyone else would be frustrated at this further reminder, but Mother seemed to have infinite patience. He knew that she feared for him, and was sure that it grated on her and Thor both, that there was nothing that they could do to help.

At least Mother's love would provide a sort of shield. But he had to be careful not to get hit regardless. That would rouse suspicion, and suspicion might mean that people would figure out more about the strange bond formed by her sacrifice. They might be able to find out how to take her away. Riddle would try it if no one else did.

He thought over potential strategies, but he was not the chessmaster of their group. He was flexible.

He wore his quidditch robes, although they were easier to see and follow—he wouldn't be able to hide as easily, but they provided greater range of movement. It had seemed a worthwhile strategy at the time.

Yes, that was a poor decision. Now he'd go out and get fried by a dragon whilst wearing Ironman's colours. That sounded a good way to die.

It was horrible, listening to the commentary inside the tent. Cedric went white and had to sit down on one of the chairs provided for them. He seemed uncertain as to the utility of his strategy.

"You'll do fine," Harry said. "They designed this competition for seventh years, not aurors."

"They didn't design it for fourteen-year-olds, either," Cedric said.

Harry smiled, an outward façade of calm and poise, intended to reassure. "I'm not just any fourteen-year-old," he said, with a wry smile.

Cedric tried to smile in return. It was a valiant effort.

"Number Three!" called Bagman. Then, he tried to take Harry aside to give him some last minute pointers. Harry just stared at him, as if they were speaking two different languages. He couldn't take any of it in.

He tuned the commentary out by planning what he was going to do for his part. It would probably fall apart in three seconds, but it was reassuring to think that he was going in with a plan, at least.

All too soon, they were calling for number four—Harry, the only one left. Diggory had survived, but he seemed to have been scorched a bit. Still, everyone had survived. Maybe protections _were_ a bit better than the previous tournaments. Maybe he would survive this.

Without using the _other_ magic? He'd have to see. Everyone had put in so much work into helping him prepare. He'd just have to survive this, no matter what. No matter what he risk.

He strode out of the tent as if unconcerned with current proceedings, the current threat.

The sun seemed brighter than usual after the hours he'd spent in the tent. He had to blink several times, squinting against it. It was not yet solar noon, but the sun was approaching its zenith. Just as well; otherwise, it would most likely have been in his eyes.

He felt his resolve leave him. He marched forwards because you marched into war. He expected attack, an ambush. The wind pulled at his quidditch robes, but they were designed for aerodynamism, and the wind was not against him. It blew, in strong gusts, sideways.

The great black dragon watched him approach. There was no sense in troubling herself over one individual amongst many—until he came too close. It made a sort of sense. Besides that, she well knew the limits of her tether. But that did not stop her staring at him, unblinking. He was still out of range of her claws and teeth, when she cocked her head, sniffing the air, and spoke.

" _Stop_ ," she said, and his approach halted, from surprise more than anything else. Why had it not occurred to him, in all his planning, that dragons were the great snakes, often called overgrown lizards, not quite either, but kin. Perhaps he would have dismissed the idea, that parseltongue would help him to understand dragons.

But then, there was something else, knowledge gleaned from library research, complete with its own little bit of surreality, when he knew that it was false: some of his reference books had said that Loki had had a son, the Midgard Serpent, a great snake that encircled the Earth.

Though that be false (Loki had no children, had been too dismissive of the company of most, too bitter and jaded for love, to have relationships or children), nevertheless such rumours had to come from somewhere. An affinity with snakes, perhaps? What else would the Midgard Serpent have been, but a dragon?

The dragon that in some tales killed Thor, but that was a digression. Perhaps it made sense that he, at least, who had taken apart the process of parseltongue into its constituent parts and then woven it back together, might even be more receptive to the speech of serpentine-non-snakes. Norberta must have been too young—or something about his experiences since she had left had changed him.

Yes, in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised, but surprised he was, nevertheless, and he stopped, as if at the command. He reached for any knowledge of noise-suppressing charms, came up empty, assumed that the spectators and judges could hear nothing.

He needed to invent such a spell, later. For now, he'd listen to the dragon. Listening to what a giant monster had to say had to be the best course of action in most circumstances.

" _There is something different about your scent. There is something about it that I don't recognise. What are you?_ "

That question, phrased that way, was getting old. He took a step forwards, as if he hadn't heard her, and she exhaled twin puffs of smoke from her snout. He paused, again, as if he'd just come closer to speak with her more easily. He wasn't even sure that he could, but he reached for that tapestry he had of the workings of parseltongue.

" _I didn't know that dragons spoke parseltongue,_ " he observed, left hand in his pocket, right hand poised to draw. Her gaze snapped to him, studying him as if he were a curiosity. He supposed he was.

" _You speak the tongue of snakes, a diminished, degraded form of our own language. It came from us, and they diminished and degraded it. You speak pretty words for one who speaks a lesser tongue. But it is still a lesser tongue._ "

Such arrogance! He did seem to encounter people with familiar flaws often. Did she think that she was better than he, just because she was bigger?

" _Why, thank you,_ " he said, as if not offended in the slightest. " _You put much trust in your sense of smell, for one who does not realise that one among her eggs is fake,_ " he observed, and the eyes narrowed at him. " _That is my purpose in coming here: to remove it. I mean you no harm._ "

The dragon snorted her disbelief. " _A false egg, which you would take for your own. Too few of our young live to adulthood as it is. I will not sacrifice one._ "

Right, well, he was not yet giving up on the most obvious strategy, now that he knew it was there. All of his other plans had had too much action for his taste. Too much of risk.

" _Can you not smell the difference, then?_ " he mused. " _I would think that it would smell different to you. I suppose its creators thought of everything. Still, you might have noticed that it was a different colour than the others. Or that you had more eggs than you thought you remembered having yesterday._ "

She did not seem to have a ready answer to this. He ignored the jeers of the crowd, the question as to what was going on. Were they out for blood?

" _Why would humans do such a thing?_ " asked the dragon, sounding slightly less sure of herself than she had been moments ago. He took a step forward, but she was still watching him. She let him take two steps forward before giving another puff of warning. But he was patient. He could outwait just about anyone. Or he'd been able to, once upon a time.

" _For entertainment. Do you see all those people sitting in the stands? They are watching a competition—who can steal the false egg in the cleverest ways, without being caught or injured, without harming the real eggs or the dragon who guards them. But I did not volunteer for this Tournament. If I did not risk losing my magic for refusing to compete, I would forfeit. I am under no obligation to put on a show for them. And neither are you._ "

" _You are asking that I step back and let you retrieve this egg without putting up any sort of fight._ " She snorted what he realised was a laugh. It occurred to him that she was neither as old nor as confident as she seemed, curled in an imposing—yet regal—black ball atop her eggs. She was quite stunning.

" _I would fulfil my part in this 'Task', and you would be rid of a cuckoo egg,_ " he said, taking another step forward. Her tail lashed, outside the nest. " _I would prefer not to risk harm to any party involved, which includes me._ "

She narrowed her eyes at him, and this time tiny twin streams of flame left her nose as she exhaled. He leant to the side to avoid them, as if they'd been an oversight on her part.

" _You come bearing weapons and threatening to rob my nest, unwilling to even tell me what you are! Why should I trust you?_ "

He shrugged, still with his left hand in his pocket. " _I have told you the truth. What benefit a lie, in this situation? And I would love to share with you my entire, twisted life story, although there is little time for that. But there is another out there whom you would say 'speaks pretty_ _words_ _'. Even the humans he attended school with believed his well-chosen words. He keeps a pet snake, who is_ _utterly_ _devoted to him. Suppose you came under his thrall. I would lose the advantage of that knowledge, were you to share the answer to that question_ _for_ _which he, too, seeks._ "

She bowed her head without moving her long neck. A muted feeling, a sense of regret, washed over him, and was gone. She might have some sort of guard over her emotions, but perhaps if they were strong enough, or she wished to share them, they would still become perceptible for him.

" _Give me something to call you, and I will tell you one of my names,_ " he offered, tilting his head. " _There is much power in a name; I do not make this offer_ _lightly_ _. And perhaps I can tell you of the difference in my scent, if you could only describe it._ "

She paused. " _Mama called me 'Bone-Cruncher',_ " she said, looking away from him as if that would preserve her dignity. She inhaled deeply, and he realised that the wind had carried his scent to her ahead of him. It was a strong wind.

" _You do not smell quite_ _like_ _anything I have smelt before…but under that, a familiar scent of burning wood and smoke. It is very faint._ "

He smelt like nothing she recognised? What did that mean? What could it mean, except that somehow…?

He waited for her to say he smelt of new-fallen snow, ice, winter, but she did not. Well, that was out.

" _They call me Harry Potter_ ," he said, approaching again. He refused to give ground. That that was forbidden lingered, hard-engrained, informing his actions, understood in his plans. " _I once lived in a palace in a world less diverse than this one. I suppose I smell of unfamiliar things because I come of a different world. And my mother's sacrifice runs as fire through my veins. That must explain your fire and smoke. She died to save me, you know._ "

A flicker of silver fire gathered in his right wrist, circled down through his hand, and disappeared. He stared at it. As did the dragon.

" _You are not human,_ " she said, staring at him. " _You are different from the ones who captured me. You are something else_."

He stared at her through his bangs, and said nothing.

" _You bear a sword,_ " the dragon noted, with renewed suspicion. " _Are you a knight? You said that you lived in a palace…._ "

He laughed at her, but it was not a mean-spirited laugh. She was quite young, whoever she was. Young, and uncertain, projecting false confidence. He understood that.

" _Many different types of people live in palaces. Knights, yes, and lords and ladies, but also kings and queens, princes and princesses, and even those most forget: guards and servants, maids and counselors, attendants and tutors._ "

" _Kings!_ " said the dragon, with much metaphorical venom. " _They send men to kill dragons. Back when it was not uncommon for humans to speak our tongue, we heard the tales borne, dragons slain at the behest of the King._ "

He bowed his head. " _Those days are gone. My father is a king. I don't think he'd have had you killed. But I am in exile, anyway. I am only the younger prince, the one who will never be king, even had I not fallen from favour. You need fear nothing from me. I bear this sword in my own defence. A prince should not say such things_ _lightly_.

" _And that is a marker of my trust. You must never speak of them to anyone else._ "

" _I will tell no one,_ " she said, all innocent curiosity now. She stared at him with widened eyes. He remembered the crowd at his back, but was not about to let it dictate his actions.

Even if she broke this promise, the story was highly incredible. It was doubtful that someone as arrogant and sure of himself as Riddle would ever believe this—and what were the odds that their paths would cross, anyway?

Of course, Harry's entire life was a story about what happened _against the odds_. No bets should be made concerning him, either.

She stood, slowly unfurling great black wings. Hagrid had a point. Dragons were quite majestic.

She bent her neck down, after giving him a sharp look, and examined the eggs beneath her. One among them caught her eye.

" _Gold…_ " she said, in a dreamy sort of voice.

" _False, I am sure,_ " he said, " _A decorative finish. Even non-wizards know how to do that._ "

She sniffed at the egg, and then picked it up gently in her teeth. The crowd gasped at that, but Harry stood there, and waited, as if absolutely sure of the outcome of their discussion. She set the egg down before him.

" _I refuse to be made a spectacle of_ ," she said, narrowing her eyes. He smiled, and bowed, one hand over his heart.

" _You have my thanks. I suppose I will receive the lowest marks of any, but I am in this to survive, and not to win._ "

He bent down to pick up the egg, and found that it was heavier than it looked. But he was used to carrying heavy loads. He had done all the drudgery at the Dursleys, but there was more to it, too. He knew that, now.

He turned and walked away, as if he did not even consider that she might attack. And attack, she did not.

The crowd was utterly silent. Having listened, somewhat, to the commentary of all who had preceded him, he could guess at why. To their eyes, he had walked up expectantly to the dragon, and she had handed over the egg without a fuss. He alone amongst the competitors had retrieved the egg without injury, and he alone had done it without using magic. Or at least, that was what they thought; he didn't know if quasi-parseltongue counted.

He was still obliged to go to the healer's tent to be looked over by Madam Pomfrey, despite his lack of injury. Hermione and Ron had already left the stands to seek him out by the time she was satisfied that he hadn't been harmed at all. They burst in on him soon after her pronouncement. Ron's gaze shot to Madam Pomfrey, and Harry sighed, folding his arms.

"Even Madam Pomfrey agrees I am completely unharmed. You needn't worry yourself."

Ron's response was to crush him in a hug, which he should have expected. "Perhaps that is no longer true," Harry amended. "In which case, everyone knows to blame you."

"Well done, little brother," Ron said, as if he'd expected the worst. Harry scowled.

Hermione stared at him, eyes full of tears, but sensibly refrained from adding further damage. "What did you do?" she demanded, sounding petulant at being denied the opportunity to learn more by watching Harry in action. Typical Hermione, in other words. He hoped that someday, she would learn to prioritise her friends' safety over knowledge.

"Explained the situation to the dragon. Apparently, parseltongue is a 'degraded' form of dragon-speech. Makes sense to me."

Ginny entered, then, and he was rather distracted from what might have proven an interesting discussion about language and magic, and the interaction of the two. It would probably have dragged Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, kicking and screaming, into the mix.

"Harry! You're alright!" she squealed, throwing her arms around him. He barely stumbled at the impact, but, more surprising, didn't flinch or recoil. It was because of what Ginny had been through—that they had something _in common_ , as if she were a fellow prisoner in his cell, an ally.

She was far too close, he realised, when he'd regained his footing. Her hair was messy and windswept and tangled, and her cheeks were very red from the sun and wind, and possibly from crying. With Ginny, it was difficult to tell.

There were several long moments of indecision, in which Ginny began to tense, before he sighed, and, very gingerly, wrapped his arms around her. She might as well have been covered with thorns. Could he go back to talking to—or even fighting—a dragon, please?

Unwilling to overstep his bounds with her, as he had too often before, he counted to five, and then withdrew, holding her at arm's length.

She was still too close. He let go, before he could do something that he would likely regret when she never spoke to him again. He'd made her cry quite often enough, thank you, and he seemed determined to persist in just that, judging by a certain redness in her eyes.

"I'm fine, Ginny," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose you thought that just because Hermione didn't crush me to death, and the dragon didn't torch me, you would have to suffocate me."

"You _jerk_ ," she said. "Ooh! I thought—going in, I thought, sure, you'd killed a basilisk, and all, to—to save me—" Red flooded her cheeks, which was the only indicator that it had receded at all. "But dragons…dragons are different. Dragons breathe fire."

"That's what they're known for, yes," he said, glancing at Ron and Hermione, who looked far too smug. That confirmed it. They were spending too much time together, and Ron was rubbing off on her. He shuddered to think what the result of that might end up being.

"Ooh!" Ginny said, stomping her foot. "Just never mind! I don't know why I talk to you, sometimes, Harry Potter!"

She stormed back out of the tent, and he was very sorry to see her go. He turned a puzzled frown to Ron and Hermione.

"Alright. _Now_ what have I done?" he asked.

Hermione facepalmed, but after that, silence reigned.

"Well, I suppose we should go see about your scoring," said Hermione, after a few minutes had passed. It shouldn't take that long for the judges to confer, should it? Probably, they'd been kept waiting for him. Let them wait.

He gave a non-committal shrug, and waved at Madam Pomfrey on his way out.

Hermione and Ron accompanied him to the judges table. They did not seem to notice Ron or Hermione, but they frowned at Harry's tardiness. He just smiled at them. Only Bagman was smiling at him, in return. But Dumbledore was twinkling behind his glasses, as if he knew all about Harry's complete indifference to the entire affair.

Bagman was the first to stand, with a conspiratorial smile at Harry that everyone should have found as suspicious as Harry, and a number eight shot into the air. "For being the only Champion not to harm any of the eggs, _or_ be harmed, himself. I've said I thought you used rather more magic than it looked, and—"

A number four from Crouch shut him up. Bagman fake-pouted at the interruption, but took it in stride, with the cheerful enthusiasm Harry remembered from the World Cup.

Dumbledore shot him a knowing smile, as if he knew precisely what Harry had done, but ended up giving him a six. "I think you'll find that Mr. Potter used magic after all, in this task, my dear Madame Maxime—but not a very showy sort. Well thought out, Harry."

Harry shrugged. It hadn't been thought out. But he was not about to say that, either.

He didn't even blink when Karkaroff and Madame Maxime gave him zeroes, although Ron and Hermione seemed indignant.

"But Harry, that was really impressive!" she protested.

"Not much in the way of entertainment, was it?" he asked. He turned to go, and Crouch said,

"Wait a minute, there, Mr. Potter. The Champions will be given further instruction together, now that the First Task is over. You are required to be there."

The "lose your hangers-on" was implied, but not express.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate to admit it, but...I actually...kinda...like this chapter....  
> (backs away slowly)


	14. Just LIke Cinderella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny sets Harry up with Luna as a date for the Yule Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I posted here, first, hasn't it?

The dress robes were required for a ball. An actual, bona fide, Cinderella type ball. Dancing lessons were not being offered, which might mean that the music was modern. Harry wouldn't know: he'd never heard of the Weird Sisters. Although he thought that that was the name of the witches in _Macbeth_. Or maybe that was _Wyrd_.

He learnt about this so-called "Yule Ball" from McGonagall, who made her announcement at the end of class, and then took Harry aside to tell him that, as one of the Champions, he was required to open the Ball, which meant that he needed to find a date. Also, that she was more than slightly aggravated at the fact that he'd not signed up to stay behind at Hogwarts over the holidays.

"I've done that the past three holidays here at Hogwarts," he said. "No one wanted to take me in. Now I've got family, and I mean to spend the Break with them. I didn't sign up for this Tournament. As long as I show up for the Ball, no one can possibly say that I've not done my part." His level stare and voice dared her to object.

"I am spending the holidays with Sirius, Remus, and Ron. And maybe Tonks and Hermione. I will attend whatever functions are required of me, but I refuse to let anyone take from me what I have only recently obtained."

_Particularly not when Stephen says that they will be dead, Sirius and Remus both, within a few years_.

He did not add that aloud. Instead, he glanced at Ron. He meant to tell Sirius, soon, this year, and he was running out of time. If Hermione and Tonks were not there… perhaps, he would do it during that span of time before the Ball.

Ron did not take his meaning. Harry'd have to tell him more directly. And perhaps consult with Stephen. When had life become so complicated?

He stood from his desk—he'd given McGonagall time to say her piece. Surely, she should concede the point.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Potter," she said, dabbing at her eyes beneath her spectacles. "You're right, of course. But do be sure to show up for the Christmas Feast, and the Yule Ball. And bring a date."

He nodded his agreement to the terms, and left. That was part of the plan, regardless.

* * *

Unfortunately for him, plans do not always translate well to action. Instead of immediately asking her to be his date for the Ball, he found himself instead reconsidering the morality of such a relationship. How old was he, anyway? Fourteen? Over a thousand years old? Or somewhere in between? He decided that it was silly to consider the first and last ideas; _Ron_ might qualify for that dilemma, but not he. That left the second one, the more pertinent, more ridiculous one.

Ron was his elder brother. Ginny was Ron's younger sister. Ron was his adopted older brother. Ron was his half-brother. Ginny was Ron's biological sister. Put that together, and…just what sort of messed-up concoction did you end up with?

In other words: faced with the prospect of asking her to the Yule Ball, he instead pestered Ron (Thor) about why he hadn't yet asked Hermione. It took him a week of turning over the convoluted connection of relationships surrounding him, Ron, and Ginny before he was forced to seeking for such an outlet, but he was restless for more reasons than just one. He was running out of time in the year in which to share his big secret with Sirius, which meant that it would naturally occur when he went to Sirius's childhood home for the holidays (the holiday which was another matter that he was deliberately not thinking about).

"So, have you asked Hermione to the Ball yet?" he said, sitting down in one of the armchairs next to Ron's. He was trying for a deliberately casual air.

"Have you asked Ginny?" Ron replied, which was not the sort of response Harry expected from him. He blinked, feeling a bit wrong-footed, now.

Harry glanced around the room, and leant closer. "… _Well_ ," he said, "I _am_ a bit stuck on the morality or acceptability of that. I mean, Ginny is your younger sister, and you're my older brother. Doesn't that make her my sister?"

He didn't think it did. They were too many steps removed. Only the Weasley-by-extension model provided any real stumbling block, but his mind had decided to dig in its metaphorical heels, because the alternative would be to just ask her to the Ball, which was an alarming prospect, for some reason. Suppose she said no?

"No," said Ron, frowning as if he had no idea where this argument had even come from. "It is quite simple. Ginny may be my younger sister, but you are unrelated to her."

Harry sensed that, for him, it _was_ so cut and dry. How did he even keep track of any of this? He must have been a great deal more complex than Harry—or Loki—had ever given him credit for.

Harry's question seemed to have broken down some invisible wall, because Ron said, "Do you not think that Hermione is far too young for me to attempt to pursue any sort of romantic relationship with her?"

Harry frowned, and blinked, and considered the question as he did. This seemed a far more ridiculous question.

"No," he said, leaning back in his seat. He kept his sixth sense on the lookout for any warning that people might be listening, but that failed humans all the time. He kept his eyes peeled, and cast a surreptitious gaze around the room. He still hadn't invented a noise-boundary spell. "Thor, you come from a different world, where people have a proportionately longer lifespan. If you are looking for someone who can match you for number of years lived, the person who comes closest is Dumbledore. And since you're not attracted to men, that wouldn't work so well, even if, legally speaking, he wouldn't have the same problem you've just laid out, only, in his case, it would be legally and morally justified. He is an old man. Older than your father, despite his fewer years."

It was telling that it took a moment for Thor to protest, "He is _your_ father, too." It was equally telling that when Harry dismissed this statement with a wave of his hand, he did not repeat himself with greater vehemence. This must be eating away at him.

"You dated that girl—Jane, and she was only in her twenties. Hermione is fifteen, and you're fourteen, right now, same as I am. But, fine, you're just an _avatar_ , as Stephen put it, and you're a millennium and a half old. That's just in accumulated years, however. _Emotionally_ _and_ _mentally_ is what counts. And there…well you don't seem to have the impulse control thing down yet, so…I think you'd be, judging by appearance and behaviour, somewhere in what would be the human range of seventeen to twenty. Which means that, maturity wise, you're only slightly older than Hermione—and you'll be stuck in that range for longer than she'll be alive. Basically, yes, you're a bit older than her, but only a negligible amount, once you've done the translation. Was that all that was troubling you?"

Thor looked as if he were not entirely sure that he'd heard right, and he was certain that he didn't understand what he _had_ heard. It was just as well Harry hadn't brought up Stephen's explanations on hormones and prefrontal cortices (whatever those were). Thor seemed a bit lost as it was.

"Just take it from me, big brother. You're not too old for her. Now go ask her."

He stared at the table before him, as if it would offer up suggestions as to what he should do. Thor did not leave. The table did not animate itself and offer suggestions. They both waited, instead. It was clear that Ron _was_ affected by human hormones—at least to an extent—or else the veelas would have had no effect on him, and he wouldn't have been so uncertain and indecisive about Hermione—especially not after what Harry had just said. He was the bold, risk-taking one. But adolescence was hard enough the first time.

"Fine," Harry said. "I'll ask Ginny, and you ask Hermione. Who need ask first shall be dictated, as it must, by which of them shows her face first. Given what we know of them, that will be Ginny. Hermione will be in the library until nightfall."

Thor did not offer up any sort of objection. He might have been a statue, for all that he moved. Harry took this as tacit agreement, rather than try to force a promise from him.

Ginny, sure enough, was first to appear, all red with health and glowing from the cold weather. Of course she'd been outside, and out practicing quidditch. Wasn't she cold, though? It was very nearly December, now, after all. Already, a winter chill was setting in.

Harry gave Ron a meaningful look, and stood up to meet Ginny. "Hello, Ginny. Have you seen Hermione?" He kept his voice light and casual. Ginny frowned as she turned to face him.

"She's in the library," she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She glanced at Ron, and then looked back at Harry, and he realised that she didn't know what was going on. That was rather unfair to her. He glanced around the room, but it was mercifully empty. "I think I finally managed to talk Ron into asking her out," he said. Ginny beamed.

" _Finally_ ," she said, coming over to stand in front of their table. "I think you'd best go to the library, Ron."

He seemed a bit dazed and dizzy from these recent turns of events. Harry had considered not telling Ginny, but then had decided that Ron needed the extra push. He might even be right: Ron finally stood, and started for the door. He walked as a sleepwalker does, as if not totally aware of what he was doing.

"A word with you, Ginny, if I might," Harry said, as Ginny took Ron's departure as her cue to leave. Ginny halted in her tracks, and turned to look at him over her shoulder, as if he were unworthy of more of her attention. Maybe he was. He stood up, and walked over to her, and then around to face her.

"Well, what is it?" she snapped. She was still carrying the old school broom she'd borrowed for practice and games. She was starting to shiver. Although unfamiliar with the sensation of _physical_ coldness, he nevertheless felt some sort of twinge at the sight of her, shivering there.

"I shan't keep you long," he said. "I only wondered…" he paused, closed his eyes, and gathered whatever daring and nerve he had. "I was wondering if you'd go to the Yule Ball with me."

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him for a second, mouth agape, before she realised that fact, and closed it. She dropped the broom, but made no immediate move to pick it up. She blinked at him, and then frowned.

Then, she seemed to shrink in on herself, hunching her shoulders, and looking down. "I'm _really_ sorry, Harry," she said, biting her lip, not meeting his eyes. "Neville asked me already, and—and I thought, I wouldn't be able to go, otherwise—you know that it's only open to fourth years and higher… I never thought you'd ever ask me."

He looked down at the ground, too. He gave a shaky laugh. "Don't worry about it," he said, with a hollow smile. "I'm glad you found a date!" To think, he'd _liked_ Neville before this. It was rare to find someone who didn't think that the Killing Curse was the worst of the Unforgivables, and there was something else he was still trying to put together. Somehow, the Cruciatus was connected to Neville's tragic backstory. How?

Now, he was much less inclined towards sympathy towards Neville, but he held onto that corner of himself that knew that he was being unreasonable, that he was being _jealous_ , and that if Neville had greater courage than he, he should be proud of that fact, for Neville's sake. That was rather hard to remember, though, particularly in light of the predicament it put Harry in.

"Well, then, since the only girl I wanted to go to the Yule Ball with is going with someone else, now what do I do?" he asked, with a bitter little laugh. Ginny stared at him, as if all of this were coming out of nowhere, and she wasn't entirely sure that he was sane. Which just meant that she was understanding him better than she had before. Her eyes softened into what must have been pity, but he refused to raise his head to look at her more clearly.

"Well…" she said, biting her lip, "I do know someone else who I doubt has a date. Maybe you could ask her."

"I don't think they'd let me come alone," he said. He was a bit worried about this mystery person, who Ginny doubted had a date, but…it was still early. Perhaps…. "But I insist upon meeting her, first. It would hardly do if we didn't get on."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, I think you'd get on just fine," she said. "You're the same kind of weird."

Which was just about the least reassuring thing she could have said.

To his surprise, however, Ginny was right: they did get on. And it wasn't only because Ginny's friend was a difficult person _not_ to get on with. She was rather distant and thoughtful, and only seemed tangentially aware of reality unfolding around her, and therefore, less than aware of any insults directed her way. Not that he'd done any insulting; he was relying on what she and Ginny had to say of how her fellow third-years treated her.

Ginny sat back and watched, with something of growing horror. She'd thought her childhood friend and Harry would get on, but not quite this well. They were both weird, in an oddly compatible way. Harry, for instance, was the only person Ginny had ever seen take Luna's ramblings about imaginary creatures seriously, asking for more information on crumple-horned snorkacks and blubbering humdingers, or whatever they were (Ginny herself forgot the names almost as soon as she heard them). He even asked for a copy of Xenophilius Lovegood's _magnum opus_ : his bestiary.

"You're Harry Potter," Luna said, when Harry first entered the classroom where Ginny had set up the meeting. Harry blinked, cocked his head, stared at her, doubtless noticing all the small details.

"I know I am," he said, with an amused little grin. "I don't think I know your name, though."

Ah. Oops. "I'm Luna Lovegood," Luna said, already distracted, as she gazed at the air around Harry's head. She must have been satisfied by the results of her analysis, because she didn't comment on the wrackspurt population, or whatever they were.

"'Lovegood'?" he repeated. He paused a while, to retrieve some memory or other, and then said, "Aha! You're the family we weren't waiting for, on the hill before the Quidditch World Cup."

Which meant nothing to Luna, unless her sharp ravenclaw intellect let her cut through and connect invisible dots. Ginny often thought it did.

"I don't like quidditch," she announced. "It's boring. I suppose it might be fun to play, but there are plenty of interesting things around us, if we just keep our eyes open. All sorts of creatures live in the Forest, for instance. That's why it's forbidden. I like to go speak to the thestrals, myself."

Harry stared at her, and then leant forwards. "You can see _thestrals_?" he asked. And then he blinked, as if realising he'd said something offensive, which had never happened when he'd spoken with Ginny. She gritted her teeth, and kept an eye on them. "I'm sorry, Luna."

Luna looked up at the ceiling, seeing something only she could see. "Don't apologise. Dumbledore says that death is just the next great adventure. I don't think we should be sorry if those we love are living more exciting lives than we are. They can probably see all sorts of creatures that are invisible or difficult for us to spot. I suppose people who almost die, and then come back, are the people who report sightings of such rare creatures. They're how we know they exist to begin with."

He considered this for a moment, and then nodded. "That makes sense. Grims are like that, right? People only see them sometimes, and the rest of the time, they're invisible. To see one is an omen of death—but it's because you're already in the boundary-place between life and death."

"I was thinking more about crumple-horned snorkacks, and heliopaths, and all those other things people make fun of me for believing in."

He blinked, cocked his head, brow furrowed in concern. "They mock you for believing in what they haven't experienced but…isn't that just like muggles who disbelieve in magic? How could any muggleborn, or even half-blood, be dismissive of a thing just because they've never seen it?"

"My father is trying to raise awareness of those secrets—the creatures people don't believe in, and opinions no one else listens to. He aims to be a voice of truth, one who doesn't judge a belief by how widespread it is."

Harry didn't seem to know what to make of this. "And he told you of these…snorkacks? What are they? What do they do?"

It was the first time she'd ever seen anyone genuinely interested in Luna's weird creatures. Ginny bit her nails, and then realised that she was indulging in a habit she'd been trying to break, sticking her hands in her armpits and biting her lip, instead.

Luna went on about the whatsits for a while, and then moved onto thingamabobs, and thence to whatchamacallems. Harry asked if it would be possible to obtain a copy of Mr. Lovegood's bestiary, and Ginny wilted. She'd put her foot in it, this time. Sure, she'd wanted Harry to have a decent date for the Ball, she wanted him to be happy, and Luna was her friend, who rarely had a chance to shine…but maybe she'd done a bit _too_ good of a job at playing matchmaker. Harry and Luna were definitely a compatible sort of weird. But…she had a date of her own. She had Neville, who was sweet, and a bit awkward, and shy, but brave and dependable, too. And he'd asked her out, rather than kept her waiting on tenterhooks.

And yet…she wished that she were going to the Ball with Harry. She couldn't help it. Luna could have gone with Neville. They would probably have gotten on fairly well. Neville was open-minded, and he didn't like those who mocked others just for their different beliefs. He would have been good to Luna.

Ginny hated watching how well her childhood friend and Harry got on. By the end of the meeting they were some sort of friends, at the very least, and Harry seemed much cheerier than he had been before the interview started. It was insane. In other words, as Harry was involved, it went exactly as she should have expected.

* * *

Ginny Weasley leant back against the wall outside the Charms Classroom, waiting for her only friend other than Hermione to show up, to have a short chat with her concerning a matter of consistent frustration for Ginny: Harry Potter.  
How was she to know that he had any sort of romantic interest in her before he'd asked her to the Yule Ball, out of the blue? Every encounter they'd ever had seemed to be filled with mixed signals. He'd be solicitous and almost charming one minute, and then mocking and sarcastic the next, until she'd storm off in frustration. "Mixed signals" was putting it mildly!  
It didn't help that, up until that day he'd offered to help her with her Ancient Runes homework, she'd thought of him as sort of a George, but one who liked arguments. She knew he argued with Ron and Hermione all the time, and they were close. So, she'd tried to be that for him. Someone who could argue with him as an equal.  
Her first attempt, back home, at cheating to win an argument showed he didn't respect that, so she'd stuck to the rules when they'd discussed coursework. But, maybe he looked for something in a love interest than he did in his friends, even though your significant other was supposed to be your best friend. Maybe, he didn't want someone who could hold her ground in an argument. Maybe she'd missed her chance, and driven him away, instead.  
If only he made sense! She'd thought she understood him several times already. The Dursleys ensured that he didn't fit in any standard social model, and had to figure out social norms from scratch. Fine.  
Then, he'd saved her life back in first year, and she'd thought... well, she thought he respected strength, and she had a strong character, she knew that. No one had ever offered to help her through the ordeal that had been her first year (sometimes, she wondered, had it ruined her, had it broken her, after all?) except for Harry, and she thought she was holding up well enough on her own.  
Then, he'd been in and out like a flickering candle, last year, and she'd spoken with him, several times, but he didn't remember it. She knew he didn't. She'd held vigil at his bedside after that quidditch match, because she'd never been good at speaking her emotions—in a houseful of boys, there was never a chance to learn—she'd thought that her actions would speak louder than words, but he'd hardly even noticed her then, she hadn't thought.  
What sorts of people did he notice? she'd asked herself then, and, again, she'd thought she'd found an answer.  
Perhaps, she'd been wrong. Perhaps, she'd been right. He'd noticed her, after all, but he'd never expressed it. Now, she realised that she was the one who should have made overtures...somehow, or borne through that frustration that came of having any sort of conversation with him long. She'd goaded him into a fight just the once, back before the beginning of the year, and he hadn't liked that.  
This whole ordeal was trial and error. But, Luna was so estranged from normal conceptions of reality. Perhaps, Ginny could ask her how Harry's mind worked?  
A hopeless cause. Even Hermione didn't understand him.  
But she could figure this out! She could figure out how to help him (he needed help this year; everyone knew the Triwizard Tournament was a deathcourse!). She'd just have to rethink things, and see how he got on with Luna.  
Note to self: romance novels were not good guides for real life romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to make up for how much I like the previous chapter, I kind of hate this one. Romance is the bane of my existence.


	15. The Omnivident Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita Skeeter follows up on Harry's lead. Harry has a disturbing encounter with the Marauder's Map.

Ginny might have turned him down for the Ball, but at least he had a date. And Luna was a very nice, interesting person, with all manner of interesting ideas. There was much he could learn from her. He was still disappointed, of course, but he could make the best of it. He complained a bit to Mother, and then was fine. He was far too busy trying to prepare for how to share his secret with Sirius and Remus. He hadn't made any progress with the egg, either, but as he couldn't bring it into his dreamscape, it was difficult to confer with Mother. He could only describe what he'd heard, which was less than helpful.

The second Hogsmeade weekend came, about a week before Christmas. Hogsmeade was packed with students going shopping for the holidays, as so many people were staying over the Break. Harry decided to stay at Hogwarts to pack in preparation for heading to Sirius's house, which Sirius, Remus, and, surprisingly, Mrs. Weasley had been working on making safe for human habitation. And he'd thought that hyperbole until he saw the place.

Mrs. Weasley's occasional appearances there made it easier to justify inviting Ron over. Hermione, unfortunately, would be staying at Hogwarts, but she'd invested in enough floo powder to at least drop in on them once a day. She refused to tell Harry whom she was going to the Ball with. Harry was almost certain that it was Ron, but neither of them would tell him, or even say something that would let him figure it out by lie-detection. He suspected that Ron had clued her in on this, which was completely unfair.

And speaking of big secrets….

He knew that he did better when he didn't bother trying to plan for things, which didn't stop him from trying to plan for things. That was probably just human nature in play. But, in all seriousness, how _did_ you lead into talking about such a thing? It was hardly a subject of casual conversation, and the entire affair was so twisted and convoluted… there were so many places where Sirius might not believe him…but then, he'd listened before; he'd listened to the exploits of Harry's first two years, and he hadn't judged or scoffed. And this would help to put those into context, would help to explain them.

He considered bringing the Foe-Glass, but decided against it; there was no reason to expect to be attacked at Sirius's childhood home, but moving it might make the Glass forget whom it was keeping watch for. He left it, but, as a matter of course, brought the invisibility cloak, and was loath to part with the Map.

The Map. He hadn't looked at it in quite some time—he'd had other thoughts on his mind. The Map knew all the secret places of Hogwarts, bar one or two secrets too deep even for it (literally, in the case of the Chamber of Secrets). He couldn't leave it behind for security reasons, either.

Again, even though the Map was blank for the moment, he stared at it, thinking of the four Marauders—his dad among them—wandering these halls. They'd slept in the same dorm that he now did. This Map was their legacy, bequeathed to its rightful heir, unknowingly, by Fred and George. He would have to find some way to repay them (perhaps literally, if he could get away with it) for their kindness.

" _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_ ," he said, and tapped the parchment. Bright green lines spread across it, revealing a Hogwarts emptying of students. Some had left right after midterms. Others, those whose commute would take less time, remained, packing, until whatever arrangements they had made came through for them.

And Rita Skeeter was in the trophy room. He blinked, staring at the dot labeled "Rita Skeeter" for a few more seconds, just to be sure, and then, with a sigh, set aside his trunk, which was almost packed, anyway; he had few possessions of his own, not that that troubled him overmuch. As long as he was still splitting his time between Hogwarts and Number Four, he'd just keep wearing Dudley's castoffs. Might as well: no one else would ever want them. It was better than them being thrown away. Though, he might use whatever magic his subconscious had used in that one dream to make them fit him better.

He pursued such thoughts with a sort of dutiful apathy, using the Map to avoid being noticed. Hermione had already left to go visit her parents, which suggested that hers was a longer commute than his. If she'd still been here, he would have sought her out for her assistance in the coming confrontation. But she wasn't. And there was no way he was bringing Ron.

To his surprise, the trophy room was, to all sight and sound, completely empty. But the Map persisted in believing that someone named "Rita Skeeter" was there. He made sure the dot was far enough away not to hear what he said, before tapping the Map, and whispering, " _Mischief managed_ ". He grinned a bit to himself as the ink immediately blinked out.

He closed his eyes, and opened his seventh sense. Sure enough, there was someone else in the room with him, although her whereabouts were surprisingly difficult to pinpoint. She was wrapt in a sort of magic that he thought he should recognise. It took all of his self-control not to pull on one of the threads sticking out from around her. He poked at it, instead, with a length of magic shaped like a rod. Had she known how to use her seventh sense (had she had one?) she would have been able to follow it back to him.

But, she didn't. Instead, she suddenly grew out of the shape of an insect that had been hovering in the air, dismissed by Harry as unimportant. He stared. Oh.

"Ouch!" she cried, which was probably a reasonable response. "I suppose I've been flying for longer than I thought, getting sore all over. How fascinating, though. It's really here, just as Potter said it was."

He had a choice to make, here. He could confront Skeeter, and let her know that he knew her secret—which would be very useful if she were doing anything that he didn't want her to, or if there were something he wished her to do, but she refused. Blackmail, like what the Twins were trying to use on Bagman. Only, in their case, Sirius was offering them legal advice and monetary assistance with their joke shop, so, no, nothing like that situation. Harry was alone in this.

His other option, of course, was to slip away, quietly, before she could realise that he was aware of her presence. Before she knew that she'd been seen. Ideally, taking a picture of her mid-transformation, or otherwise acquiring usable proof that she was an animagus—because he knew that magic, now, and it was hard to misidentify something as straightforward as an animagus changing back to human form.

If he chose to slip away, then _he_ could know her big secret, and allow for it, in all future endeavours, with her none the wiser. He could warn Hermione, and they could work together to keep Skeeter out of important secrets. Hermione might have even more ideas for what to do.

Harry threw on the invisibility cloak, and left Rita Skeeter leaning up against a display case, none the wiser.

* * *

He'd wondered about the Map when it had first come into his possession; now, he returned to the questions all over again, knowing what he now knew about the identities of its creators. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, his own dad, and…the _traitor_. The one whose form was continuing to solidify in his Foe-Glass. All of them gryffindors, although Pettigrew was unworthy of his house. He could think of no particular reason that they would use a Slytherin colour for their map. Of course, there was always the chance that they'd used those colours so that people _would_ assume that it was made by slytherins…a sort of cover for them. He decided that that was probably it.

The Map had so many layers to it—ridiculously complex wizarding magic, proof that it could be used and stacked in complicated arrangements. There were a number of disciplines in it—runes, charms, even transfiguration and potions. They'd put more work and time and energy into this casual project of theirs than some people put into their _careers_. It was one of those things that he was tempted not to use his seventh sense to examine. But he was trying to talk himself out of it.

Yes, the Map might be a work of art—singular, in the same way that the Room of Requirement was singular, or the Goblet of Fire, but it was _different_. His dad had had a hand in making it. Didn't understanding the Map better mean that he'd understand his _dad_ better? Right now, all he had were stories. But surely…such a lengthy task as making the Map must have been…he'd have left an imprint of his own on the Map. The way that battles were said to leave their marks on the land—so much emotion, so many memories. Didn't he owe it to his dad to look?

Someone might well say to him: if you wish to understand your dad better, why not ask Sirius and Remus? They're right downstairs. Why sequester yourself in the guest room you're sharing with your brother, and sit up here, staring at the Map?

Perhaps, it was symptomatic of life at Grimmauld Place. Aurors and professional house cleaners had come into the house, long before Sirius had troubled himself with coming to it, scouring the house from top to bottom, helping to clear out the infestations of any number of household pests that Harry had never heard of. They'd done their best; the House was the sort of project that would take years to clear out, again. Sirius had a point: Kreacher wasn't cleaning at all. He seemed, instead, devoted to the idea of preventing Sirius from throwing out anything that had belonged to Sirius's parents—and family heirlooms.

Mrs. Weasley and Remus tried, of course, but they were not professionals—although Mrs. Weasley, as a housewife, was the next best thing to one. She alternated between fussing over Sirius, urging him to return to St. Mungo's for a checkup, and waging war on the house. During these work hours, Sirius worked just as hard as anyone else in making the house presentable, but most of the important things were out of his depth.

This was a period of rest, before Sirius, who flat out refused to let Harry cook, after what he'd seen at the Dursleys, began making dinner. He didn't trust Kreacher to do this, and Harry didn't trust Ron (anyway, Ron was only slightly older than he was, right? Regardless of how you calculated things).

Harry had only been here a couple of days, but he could already name at least five good reasons Sirius could have for hating it, off the top of his head. It had the sort of unapproachable melancholy air usually reserved for gothic cathedrals. Kreacher took every opportunity he got to goad Sirius, or to insult him. The portrait of his dear old Mother, who was one of those people who would never be worthy of a softer term, hung behind curtains in the foyer. He had enough bitter memories of the place, anyway, to last a lifetime; it was the Number Four of Sirius's childhood. And, of course, it was a nasty, dangerous place that Harry was not entirely sure was safe for human habitation.

It had a familiar, brooding feel to it. Harry realised with dawning horror that this was one of the places Mother had spoken of, long, long ago—a place so poisoned that you mustn't use its magic, because it would twist and warp you into something as sinister and evil as it was, itself. If he'd ever sought for the palace underbelly, he thought it would have _felt_ as this house _felt_. It was a dementor of a house.

What a horrid thought. But… _how_ did it feel this familiar? Where had he encountered such a place before? _Had_ he stumbled upon the palace underbelly—and then never remembered it? The fact that he couldn't place the similarity suggested that it belonged in the gap in his memory, and that made him…antsy. Brooding. And that, in turn, had pulled him up here, where no one could spy on him, bar that empty portrait frame. He'd never seen an empty portrait frame, which suggested that the image that had been painted upon it had somehow been destroyed—but the spirit remained. A suitably gloomy thought for this old house.

He was restless. He felt like pacing. Instead, he forced himself to stay utterly still, and stare at the Marauder's Map, examining what he could of its myriad layers without opening his seventh sense. But he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. This was the sort of place that made anyone twitchy and paranoid. For someone who was already as fragmented and unpredictable as Harry, prone to seeing dangers everywhere, it kept him on high alert. He was liable to open his seventh sense on reflex the next time someone entered the room unannounced. And then, perhaps, he'd _accidentally_ look at the Map.

Of course, he didn't anticipate being interrupted—not with Ron giving him his space, almost as if reading his mind, and heading off Mrs. Weasley, who, last Harry had checked, had been insisting upon dragging Moody into the house to examine some drawer in the dressing room. She also was using Lockhart's (outdated to the extent it was ever valid) guide to household pests to try to fight said pests off, which might, come to think of it, be what was taking so long to complete the job. Sirius had been told of Lockhart's attempts to wipe Ron's and Harry's memories at the end of second year, and developed a personal grudge against him, even though he was dead. Most arguments concerning the house eventually cycled back to Lockhart the Fraud.

Poor Ron. Perhaps, he should go down and ensure that neither his Mum, nor Harry's dogfather (what else could you call Sirius?) had ripped him apart. Of course, he did have some diplomatic training to fall back on…and it wasn't as if he were human, as they were.

Harry shrugged, and went back to staring at the Map. Right now, it wasn't activated.

"I wonder what you would tell me of my dad, if you could speak," he said to the Map, as he stared at it. Then, recoiled, as words appeared on the paper. That was not something he'd known to expect. Couldn't someone have warned him? I mean, all he'd done was hold the Map and speak to it. He'd thought it only recognised two commands, but….

" _Specify subject of query_ ," said Remus's neat cursive. Harry stared at the paper, unsure how to respond. Whether to respond. Then, he shook his head, and smiled. A prank built into the Map, of course. Something to the effect of muggle 'Mad-Libs'. He was intrigued, nonetheless. But he wondered what manner of protections the Map might have against the libel of a familiar name. Probably none—that would be too suspicious, according to the Slytherin-is-green scapegoat theory.

"James Potter," he said, in a soft, soft voice, knowing that the portrait might be listening in. Unfortunately, there was no other place in the house unoccupied enough to use. There were _things_ lurking throughout, and there was always Kreacher.

_Never heard of him_ , said a slanted hand of thin, spidery writing. The response made sense, and made Harry, at long last, smile. A sort of defence mechanism, he supposed.

_Mr. Prongs reports that he has complete ignorance of the individual named_ , said a second line, appearing shortly after the first. Harry's heart skipped a beat. He stared at the first line of writing, wishing that he had a camera, or some way of preserving it for posterity. His _dad_ had denied ever having heard of _himself_. Somehow, that was even better. And the second response…that was from Sirius.

_Mr. Padfoot, however, begs to differ. Mr. Padfoot submits his written request of proof of identity or parentage._

_Mr. Moony reserves judgement until the matter is decided._

_Cool! You're James's son? What's your name?_ asked Mr. Wormtail. His messy handwriting was smudged, and he was evidently so eager to hear what Harry had to say that he'd forgotten to throw his nickname in there. Harry glared at the line, as if to burn it out of existence.

But this…this was not what he had expected. The Map…it seemed to be more than a mere imprint. He hated to compare it to Riddle's diary, but there suddenly seemed a sort of sentience to it. But it couldn't be…whatever Riddle's diary had been. Could it? Could you share such a vessel? And whatever had made the diary what it was was dark magic. His dad and Sirius wouldn't have gone for that, surely?

This magic…it was far more complex than he'd previously realised. Was it dangerous? Surely not. But, perhaps he'd tripped a defensive mechanism. There were plenty of nasty hexes that weren't dark magic. He should tread more cautiously, now. He sighed, and opened his seventh sense…just a little. He told himself that it was for his own safety, despite the startling realisation that, although he had no justification for it, he fully assumed that Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs would never deliberately hurt him.

The Map had no concept of time. It didn't know that it was waiting for several minutes. It was like a book, that way.

"My name is Harry Potter," he said. "My mother is Lily Evans. My parents died when I was fifteen months old. I have no memory of them. But I do know the real names of all four of you. And I have my dad's old invisibility cloak. And I'm staying here, at Grimmauld Place, with Padfoot and Moony."

_Grimmauld Place?_ demanded Mr. Padfoot, his handwriting sloppier than usual in his haste. _Whyever would you be there?_

Harry ignored the response, and the way that nothing followed it. He thought he'd felt something…something that shouldn't have been there, nested deep within the embedded layers of the Map's magic.

_'Grimmauld Place? What is that?_ asked Mr. Moony. He might have been sincerely confused, both by Sirius's reaction, and by the name. But, perhaps most alarming, they almost seemed to be carrying on a conversation—the five of them. And that was impossible.

_You know about the cloak?_ Mr. Prongs wrote, next. He seemed to think that that was sufficient evidence, or perhaps, it was just that in addition to everything else, and it was all that he mentioned.

It occurred to Harry that, perhaps, the imprints, the impressions upon the Map, were not as complicated as the actual individual to whom they rightly belonged. But that realisation came from a corner of his mind that he was currently ignoring. He was too busy trying to chase down the familiar impossibility. It eluded him, with great skill, and he at last had to concede defeat. Perhaps he'd only imagined it.

_Mr. Wormtail would like to—_

" _Mischief managed_. Forget I said anything," Harry said, interrupting Mr. Wormtail's response, and he knew that the Map did forget, as it was wiped clean. He only felt a slight twinge of conscience. Far more pressing was a need to speak with Sirius and Remus about the strange nature of the Map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get early post again this week. But, this is a setup chapter, so...maybe you'll end up wishing it were next week's post, instead.


	16. The Other Forgotten Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns one of the Marauders' best-kept secrets, and realises that there are more things he doesn't remember than he knew.

"I need to talk to the two of you," Harry demanded, running into the kitchen, which Mrs. Weasley had vacated an unknown amount of time ago. Sirius and Remus both turned to face him, and he realised that he'd interrupted some sort of argument. As if he _cared_.

Remus relaxed in his chair, with his usual unflappable professor attitude, but Sirius came over, as if he would need to guide Harry to a chair, or something.

"Sure thing, kiddo," Sirius said. "Sit down. What's wrong? You look pale as death."

Sirius ignored Ron's glare with the sort of skill that only comes from practice. He must have expected it, then. Still, it was always impressive whenever anyone could withstand one of Ron's death glares, without cowering. It was an even greater feat to act so nonchalant about it all. Harry barely noticed, too worked up about the Map, surprised to find himself needing reassurance that it was not what it seemed to be.

"The Map," Harry said, folding his arms when Remus and Sirius exchanged a look that said, quite clearly, that they had no idea what he was talking about. He glanced over at the kitchen sink, where Ron had abandoned trying to look out the kitchen window, at Harry's recent distress, to come over to stand guard at the wall that was (coincidentally or deliberately) as far away as possible from Mrs. Black's portrait. His hearing was probably more sensitive than a human being's, too.

Harry took a deep breath, reminding himself of all of Hermione's calming exercises. "How did you make the Map?" he demanded, pulling it from his pocket, where he hadn't realised that he had stuffed it, and slamming it down on the table so hard that the table shook. Professor Lupin shot him a level, reproachful glance. Sirius did not seem to notice.

"It was a bit technical of a process, Harry," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Trade secrets, and all. Plus, I'm not sure any of us know _all_ of the spells that went into it, and—"

"I mean to say: How am I able to carry on a conversation with it, as if with actual people? Need I remind you that when I last encountered such an object, one with which you could hold a conversation, it was _Riddle's diary_?"

Remus looked puzzled, but Sirius took his meaning right away. Ron's eyes widened, and his gaze shifted from one to the next. He understood the significance. He knew about Riddle's diary; he could hardly have forgotten what it had done, or that it was some manner of dark magic.

"It isn't dark magic," Sirius said, voice very firm and deceptively calm. Harry knew that he was bristling at the mere implication that he, Sirius Black, falsely accused of being a Death Eater, bane of all things dark (except werewolves), might stoop so low.

"Then what is it?" Harry demanded, giving no ground, as if this were the most important battle he could ever fight. Ron moved to stand closer to him, as if sensing that this conversation might well head into dangerous waters…or to provide emotional support? Harry supposed that that was also a possibility.

If Harry wanted reassurance, he didn't find it. Sirius looked uncomfortable, shifting on his feet, and took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Harry. It's only an imprint of who we were then. Not _us_ , more like a series of tape recordings."

Harry didn't know what he was talking about, but, most unfairly, Ron did.

"Like a VCR?" Harry tried. He had some experience with those. Sirius ran a hand through his enviably neat and tidy hair.

"Sure, let's go with that," he said. He turned to glance back at Remus, as if asking for backup.

"We'd love to tell you more about the spell," Remus said, with his usual kindly smile. "But we had help with that one."

Harry froze, reconsidered. His dad James, and Sirius, were the brightest students of their era. Everyone agreed on that. They were…prodigious. Of course, that didn't mean that they could do anything, but just _what_ sort of spell had this been, that they'd had to ask someone for help? _Could_ it be dark magic? If they hadn't cast the spell (or brewed the potions, or drawn the runes) themselves, how could they be sure?

"Then how do you know it _isn't_ dark magic?" he demanded, nothing appeased by this explanation. "Who was it helped you with this spell?"

Another glance between Sirius and Remus, who sighed, and put his head in his hands. It must have been bad. That crossed quite a few people off the list—they wouldn't have hesitated were it Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or his mum, or something. He knew to dismiss quite a few people as possibilities, even before Remus said,

"We can't tell you that, either, Harry," in a voice heavy with…regret? Grief? "He swore us to secrecy. I've never met anyone so paranoid in my life. But he wasn't a dark wizard, and he didn't use dark magic. He was a friend of ours. We know he didn't sabotage the Map."

"Well, what _can_ you tell me, then? You can't tell me his name, or where he comes from, I suppose, or what spell he used. I don't suppose you could tell me _why_ you can't tell me any of this?"

It was Sirius's turn for a regretful shake of his head. "Sorry, Harry. We made an unbreakable promise, under penalty of worse than death, not to talk about anything he'd said to those not already in the know."

Harry sort of thought that just mentioning him had already broken that promise, but if it were the sort that activated automatically—and most oaths were—then Sirius and Remus would have known. He and Remus would be suffering such a fate, now. Harry didn't want to put them in any danger, but… only a fool would make such a promise without providing a backdoor to talk _around_ the situation, as they now were. And Sirius, at the very least, was no fool. Nor, supposedly, was his dad, who would almost certainly have been involved, if Sirius and Remus both were. Remus Lupin, while not a shining star like Sirius, was not stupid, either.

"Well, wasn't _he_ thorough," he said, in a voice laden with false cheer. Sirius and Remus both started, and turned to glance at each other. Harry affected not to see them, but his mind noticed it. His _intuition_ noticed it. "You'd have to be extremely paranoid to think of all _that_."

Harry's mind reversed its rotation, following a very strange train of thought. Suppose he _hadn't_ been mistaken, earlier. Could it be…? No, that was surely too ridiculous, even for his life…right?

Nothing was too ridiculous for his life. He took a seat, thinking that he'd probably need the support for the coming confrontation, whatever it turned out to be. Sirius took this as his cue to sit back down between Harry and Remus. Ron, of course, remained exactly as he was. He glanced at Ron, who completely missed it. He was thinking over what they'd said.

As was Harry. But he was going over other memories, too. He remembered that day, practicing the Patronus Charm, when he'd asked why Remus was behaving so peculiarly, and been told…what was it? " _Nothing. You just reminded me of someone, just now. A ghost, someone I knew in my school days. No one you would know._ " Something to that effect.

He'd always assumed that Remus had been talking about his dad…that mention of ghosts…but then, later, he'd thought Remus was comparing him to Sirius. What if he weren't?

What if Remus were wrong? There were, after all, things about Harry that Sirius and Remus didn't know…things he'd been meaning to share, anyway.

He stared down at the piece of parchment on the table, thinking that perhaps it had all the answers. What if he tried to flood out whatever he'd thought he'd sensed before, fill the map with the _other_ kind of magic? But no, suppose that ruined it? He'd have to try to talk sense into these two. And if his newest theory were true…he knew just the way. Of course, if he were wrong, then all he'd done was do exactly what he'd been planning to, anyway.

"That's a shame," Harry said. "I thought surely _I'd_ be the most paranoid person you'd ever met. With the exception of 'Professor' Moody."

He glanced at Ron to see if he'd taken his message, yet. Sighed, when he realised that he still hadn't.

"Well, I suppose I shall try to overlook that you are keeping such a big secret from me. I _suppose_ it is not directly pertinent to me. Although, _perhaps_ …."

Ron finally looked over in his direction. Perhaps, his attention had been caught by that ellipsis.

"Harry, we do wish that we could tell you. We're not keeping secrets deliberately, kiddo. But, well, I've always been impulsive, and I suppose I drew everyone into the promise with me."

"You can't talk about it with anyone not already in the know," Harry mused, as if he didn't hear Sirius. "What if we _do_ already know?" he asked.

He could almost _feel_ Ron get it, even without turning to look. Call it "vibes", call it a _sixth_ sense—he didn't always have to look, to gauge the reactions of those he knew well. That came in useful in a conversation such as this one, where he was trying to speak to someone, and maintain eye contact, whilst having a private, silent conversation with someone else. In this case: Thor.

This could be fun, if not for Sirius and Remus's guilty-canine auras, now spiked with a sort of befuddled wariness, as if unsure whether Harry were bluffing or not. Well, neither was he.

"Tell me, Professor Lupin," he said to Remus. "The individual who helped you to make the Map—is he the same individual you said I reminded you of, back when we were practising the Patronus Charm?"

Remus hesitated. In order to avoid replying, he said, "I'm not your professor anymore, you know, Harry. You can call me 'Remus'."

"Ah! We're _friends_ , then! Are you permitted to answer _that_ question, at least?" He leant forwards, towards them, as if sharing a secret already.

Remus and Sirius exchanged that twins-speaking-without-words glance that Harry had seen Fred-and-George use. He sensed an impending bout of twin-speak.

"Well—" began Sirius.

"I suppose I could answer your question. I don't _think_ it's a violation of our promise—"

"Don't bother," Harry said, waving a dismissive hand. "Your hesitation is answer enough." Sirius adopted his most indifferent attitude yet, tilting back his chair whilst holding onto the table for support. Remus seemed to suddenly find the wall very interesting, but his face was so tight Harry wondered if he could blink.

"And I suppose he must look a bit like me, too, or you wouldn't be so strongly reminded of him." He thought of the hairstyle he'd deliberately replicated as best he could, before Mother had shifted his bangs to hide the lightning-bolt scar. He still didn't know what to make of that particular symbol. Coincidence? Or a sign from whoever controlled men's fates?

He was not too deep in thought to fail to notice the renewed currents of unease coming from Remus and Sirius.

"Not very friendly of him, to leave you in such a predicament," he mused, leaning back in his own seat, straightening his posture, and deliberately not looking at either of them. "Quite selfish of him, if you think about it, to do all that just to…er, what, protect himself?"

"He was our _friend_ ," Remus protested, indignant, as Ron stared back and forth between the two parties in evident disbelief. He was broadcasting the question _what do you think you're doing?_ loud and clear. He would probably not be pleased by the answer, either.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harry," Sirius continued, his voice full of that familiar fake calm. Harry just smiled, which seemed to throw off everyone in the room, and said,

"Well, if you say so. I think he has a lot to answer for, personally, and not just for tying the two of you up, thus. Though, I have to admit I'm curious as to how you met him at all, being from two such different worlds, and all."

He'd built the tension in the room up until it was something that could be cut with a knife, or ladled out like soup. It was thick in the air. Time to abruptly shift tracks.

He thought he'd evidence enough—in what they refused to say, as much as in what they _did_ say—to give credibility to his theory. He wasn't liking this at all. He hated having gaps in his memory. He'd just have to derive whatever satisfaction he could from the inevitable explanation. This sort of thing couldn't be planned for.

"Well, alright. Ron and I have a secret of our own, you know, that we were going to share with you. Now is as good a time as any. Of course, we'd want to be sure that you could keep it secret… and we'd best make sure that no unwelcome visitors come spying on us. Call me _paranoid_ , but I'd rather no one eavesdropped."

He closed his eyes, stuffing the Map back into his pocket, and opened his sixth sense, and his seventh, to be safe. It was possible for people to elude his notice, but with all four of them on the lookout, much less plausible. Not much escaped those prepared and trained for life and death combat. Not much eluded those who had had to live all their lives on edge, constantly on the lookout for threats, danger, prepare to run. Outcasts were better suited than most to seeing the unseen, the unnoticed. This was a house, not an open plain, a forest, or a catacomb. Once the area was secure, then, barring extreme extenuating circumstance, it was secure.

"Harry," said Ron, jarring him from his thoughts. That was a reproachful tone if ever Harry had heard one. He huffed, and folded his arms again.

"I said that Kreacher won't interrupt. In fact, no one can enter the room…and I've used every anti-eavesdropping spell I can think of," said Sirius, who seemed to think that he'd been excessive, if still motivated by the desire to show that he took Harry seriously, and to… _redeem_ himself. He had no idea of the magnitude of the secret Ron and Harry were about to share with them.

He reached for that part of him that would be better suited to this, and frowned. It wasn't the sort of thing that you could invoke yourself. He glanced at Ron, looked away.

"Don't forget the Rules of Invocation," he said, without looking back at him. Then, to the rest of the room, "Don't look so worried. I just had to make sure no one was hiding from you. My seventh sense isn't infallible, but it's better than nothing."

Sirius and Remus, who were back to their seats while Harry had been concentrating, just stared straight ahead. They didn't look at anyone. Sirius rubbed his arms as if to ward off a chill. He'd probably developed that mannerism in Azkaban, Harry thought, and scowled, briefly, at nothing in particular.

"This is a very big secret, so I'd like to swear you to secrecy, first. Don't tell anyone what we're about to tell you. I mean it. This is no trifling revelation."

"What, do you want us to make an Unbreakable Vow?" asked Sirius, sounding bored, in the way a teenager _will_ sound bored, just for spite.

Harry hesitated. He'd heard of those. They were nasty. And yet, part of him still wanted to say "yes". But…what if he _were_ the one who'd put them in this oath to begin with? He wanted to be better than whoever it was had bound them into complete silence, such a vow of silence that they would not even tell him. Just who did he want to be, anyway?

"No," he said, at last. "I trust the both of you, or I wouldn't be telling you this, anyway. I don't want to back you into a corner, if a situation arises wherein you had no choice but to reveal our secret—and there may be occasions in the future where, in your own discretion, it would advance the cause. Don't ask what cause. We will reach that, believe me, all in good time."

"This sounds like a long story," said Remus. He buried his head in his hands as if it had already reached its conclusion, but he couldn't know how devastating that turn would be, yet. Unless he were prescient? What electives had the Marauders taken, anyway?

Harry shook his head. "Well, tempting though it is to bind you all around with promise rope, I will instead _trust_ that you will use your discretion. Keep in mind that Dumbledore is not to know, even, and that Hermione, while she will someday, doubtless, be informed, is also in the dark."

He glanced at Ron, as if to tell him to hurry up with that, already. Then he blinked. Hermione was his friend, as well. And it was just as much his secret. Why not tell her, himself? But….

"Well, I'll give Ron another chance to explain his part of this, when we get there, but I think you need a bit of an overview, first. I'll just say that neither of us are quite who you think we are. That's all you need to know at the outset. If that. Stop me when this sounds familiar." He glanced at Ron, to see if he understood his cue. He was looking rather petulant at the reminder that his last explanation had failed. Oh, well. He'd come around.

"There are nine realms, of which Earth ('Middle Earth') is the centremost. These nine realms are under the governance and protection of Asgard (another of the nine realms) and its king, Odin. Travel to and from these realms is facilitated by the Rainbow Bridge—"

"The Bifrost," Thor interjected, and Harry glared at him.

"It's not your turn to confuse everyone, yet," he said. "I'd spend my time finding a less incomprehensible way of putting your tale, if I were you, and not making trivial comments."

He was probably being mean and ungrateful, again. But this was hard. He'd come to value Sirius and Remus, perhaps too much. What if…?

Now that he'd started, he had to see it through to the end. He took a deep breath.

"Asgard is ruled by a king, and it's a backwards world in many ways, but in that place, they've yet to realise the divide between magic and science that came about…during The Enlightenment?"

"It began with the Christianisation of Europe, and what they call 'The Dark Ages'," Thor said. "The Enlightenment only made the divergence more extreme."

That was an acceptable interruption. Harry let it pass. "Right. In any case, they have a powerful, different magic there, which works very differently from wizarding magic. And differently again from sorcery, but I digress."

" _Sorcery?_ " Sirius mouthed, which made sense. He hadn't met Stephen, and sorcerers were quietly present, and rare. Stephen kept telling him that if he wanted to know about the history of sorcerers, he should visit the library at Kamar-Taj. He said he'd be able to arrange it with someone called "Wong". Until then, Harry was hardly qualified to talk about sorcery, considering all he had to go on were his own impressions and guesses. Besides, the magic wasn't the focus of this discussion, although it _was_ important to mention.

Ron was starting to fidget, which was a bad sign. "The king of Asgard is Odin All-Father, who is supposed to be omniscient. I'm not sure I believe that, but Ron will insist that it's true, so, no, Ron, there's no need to interrupt me for that."

He didn't bother looking, but he knew that Ron closed his mouth, and said nothing, no matter how many different objections he was tempted to make. He also suspected that Sirius and Remus had some experience with _someone_ 's ability to do just as he was doing, and it kept them on a state of high alert. Sirius, in particular, would probably put things together rather quickly.

"The queen is Frigga, who is the greatest woman to have ever lived, by the way. Both of them have what would have to be considered magic, but they somehow aren't that well-known for it. Asgard looks down on magic-users, because it's a warrior culture. As I said: in some ways, backwards. It's true, Ron, but let's not have this argument, now."

Again, Ron kept silent rather than make protest, which was a good record. He must have learnt a good deal of restraint…somewhere.

"Then, there are the two princes. The elder of the two is Thor, the Crown Prince. He's well-known for being a bit reckless and brash, but with a strong heart, and, as he's 'Asgard's quintessential youth', he can afford to be a bit less macho than the rest of the society, which Stephen tells me is a good thing. Don't ask me who Stephen is. I'm sure you'll meet him later," he said, shooting Sirius a glare, sidelong, that shut him up instantaneously, as if he were very familiar with it. As if reacting to a habit, hard-engrained, untouched by time.

Hmm. Now _that_ was food for thought, now wasn't it?

"Really? You're telling me that none of this sounds familiar to you?"

" _Well_ ," Sirius began, seeming a bit thrown at suddenly being allowed to speak. "I might have come across it in research in the library, once…."

Harry leant forwards, not curious, but still wanting to know just what he'd say. "Really? What did they say? When I did the research, there was only one book that listed the royal family in the way I just delineated it."

"That wasn't the information I was looking for. I wasn't looking for information on a family tree, I was looking for—"

"Sirius!" Remus snapped, and Harry pouted. Those two were keeping on their toes.

"Then, you _have_ heard of it before! Why didn't you say something?" asked Harry, as if nothing had happened. Somehow, that did not allay their suspicions. He shrugged, and continued with the individual he'd been dreading mentioning.

"The youngest member of the royal family is the younger prince, Loki. The truth is, he comes from a different world again, and was adopted by the king and queen. You might have read that in one of your books." He couldn't keep a certain undercurrent of bitterness from his voice, in spite of it all—the situation, his many realisations, and his frequent reminders that, really, he was quite ungrateful of the privileged life he'd led. "I suppose that isn't any matter, though," he added on, with far less certainty.

"I should say it isn't!" Sirius said. "My whole family were dark wizards, the lot of them! I mean, Andy saw sense eventually, but my parents…. So, when I was sixteen, I ran away from home. Your grandparents took me in, treated me like I was their own. I was always welcome in the Potter household. _That's_ what family is."

Harry waved a hand in dismissal just to be irritating, and sensed that Thor was going to lose control of his temper.

"Sirius is right, little brother. Listen to him," said he, voice firm, but you could hear the edge in it. You could cut steel with a voice that sharp. The only way Harry could think of that seemed reasonable to react was to ignore him, entirely.

"Anyway, Loki is one of Asgard's greatest magic-users, which means that…well, almost no one there respects him. That's what comes of a society that values war, and thinks magic is pointless, I think. Anyway, that made him incredibly bitter and jaded—well, that's far from the only reason. Odin is such a kingly sort of person, all distant and cold, and Thor was so impulsive that he often dragged everyone around him into danger. Well, that was just asking for trouble.

"Thor's coronation is about twenty years from now. Only, it never quite came to pass, you know. He led an unauthorised invasion, and Loki wasn't able to talk Odin out of punishing him."

"Wait just a minute," said Sirius, who seemed to be keeping up better than Remus. "Why are we talking about things you say are in the future, as if they've _already happened_?"

"Did I mention that this story involves time travel?" Harry asked, cocking his head, and studying Sirius and Remus. "No? It must have slipped my mind."

"As it 'slipped your mind' to mention that Mother—"

"We can argue about that, later," Harry said. He quite liked cutting Thor off halfway through. It was just about the only perk that came of having to lead this conversation. "Ah, but where was I? Let's see: Odin sent Thor to Midgard—to Earth—stripped of his powers. If he could prove himself worthy of them, they'd return to him. If not…he'd probably die very quickly, because he had no idea how to live as a human. Why would he? Contact ceased between the two worlds, with the Christianisation of the Nordic peoples. But he proved himself worthy, and regained his powers, and then Loki found out he was adopted, and fell off the Rainbow Bridge—"

"The Bifrost," Thor corrected again.

"It's a bridge made of a rainbow. Don't make it sound more complicated than it is," Harry said, without looking. Any plan he would have made of this conversation would have had to account for the constant interruptions—and who could predict those? It was just as well that he was best at winging it.

"Well, Loki died on a far away planet, and was returned to life by a madman with delusions of altruism, who wants to wipe out half of the universe's population, who brainwashed him, and sent him to take over Midgard, but Thor, and Thor's new friends the Avengers, managed to stop him, and then he was arrested, and, I assume, sent to prison. Your turn, Ron."

Thor was obviously reeling at the sudden switch, which was just as well, because Remus and Sirius were still trying to catch up.

"No. Now, just wait just one second, here," Sirius said, his tone sharp in a way that it usually wasn't, when speaking with Harry. He sounded…angry. "How do you know all of this? Why should we believe you?"

"You doubt my word?" asked Harry, in his softest, most dangerous voice. Ron tensed, in the corner of his vision.

"You can't talk that way about our friends," Remus said, and then froze, seeming to realise that he'd messed up, somewhere, but not where.

"Damn it, Remus," said Sirius, head in his hands. Harry blinked. He hadn't expected _Remus_ to be the one to crack. In a way, however, it made sense.

"Oh? What's this? Your ' _friends_ '?" he repeated, the inclination of his head almost mocking. Thor shot him a sharp, reproachful glare, which he duly ignored.

"Now you've done it," said Sirius, to Remus, seeming not to hear Harry, which, in other circumstances, would have been galling. "You should—"

"But Loki said—" Remus began, and then caught up to himself. He looked as if he wanted to kick himself.

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Harry said. "I suppose it's just as well that Ron and I already knew."

He kept his voice as even as possible, and spread his hands wide. "I think you have nothing to worry about."

"But…how could you know?" asked Remus.

"Figured it out," said Harry, with a shrug. "If you've been listening, you'd know that you're not the only ones who know Loki."

Remus frowned, his brow crinkling together. "But how would you have met? He disappeared almost twenty years ago, and didn't keep in touch."

"Did you not say something about relationships requiring that you at least—?" Thor began.

"Oh, shut up," Harry said. "I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. You shouldn't be surprised by now."

As predicted, Sirius got it first. "You can't be saying—" he began, as Harry leveled a stare at him. He cut himself off, even though that stare was not a "shut up, now" glare.

"What?" asked Remus, registering that Sirius had figured something out, but not following _what_. He looked back and forth between Sirius, and Ron and Harry, trying to figure it out.

"Harry," Sirius said, firmly. "That's impossible. Tell me that I'm just misinterpreting what you're saying."

Harry rolled his eyes, because sometimes you just had to. "Come now, Sirius, you're smarter than that. I can give you a demonstration, if you need proof."

"Little brother," Thor tried again, and Sirius's gaze snapped to him. It was clear that, in Sirius's corner, at least, the world had stopped spinning. Almost, Harry pitied him.

"You…" Sirius began, and then trailed off, at a loss for words. He looked back and forth between Ron and Harry, rather ashen and shaking, as the night they'd first met. Harry waved a hand, as if saying hello.

" _What_ , Sirius?" Remus demanded, again.

"Don't you—don't you _get_ it, Moony?" he asked, using the nickname that had long since been set on the shelf with other childish things. "Harry's saying that _he's_ —that _he's_ —"

Okay, it was probably time to take pity on him. This was kind of pathetic.

"…That _I_ am Loki, Prince of Asgard. Yes. And, yes, Ron is Thor, my older brother. The _how_ of that is a complicated thing that he has twice attempted to tell, and never yet succeeded. But we shall give him another chance."

Well, yes. Once Remus and Sirius had recovered, and remembered how to breathe.

"You're—"

He sighed, and waved a hand in a semicircle that passed before his eyes and continued, counterclockwise, right to left. The world changed around them, recreating a familiar image, of splendour, bright gold and jewel tones, piercing through the drab dreariness of Grimmauld Place, making its remnants of grandeur seem quaint and rustic. And it wasn't only the lay of the land that changed.

"Do _I_ perhaps look familiar to you?" asked Harry, only he wasn't Harry anymore, not with this illusion of a different form, a different life. He looked different, and, in such surroundings, the rest naturally followed. The Rules of Invocation prevailed.

Thor stared around in open wonder and wistful longing, and then glanced at Loki.

"Brother," he said. "You have made your point. Drop the illusion. I can see that it is taxing your strength."

"It is only an echo of Asgard," Loki said to Sirius and Remus. "Beautiful, is it not? None who see it fail to marvel. Consider yourselves privileged."

He could feel it taking its toll. He glanced around him, again, and then let the illusion fall. Such a widespread thing—he could sustain it for far less time. It was a good thing he was already seated.

 _Show no weakness_.

"Do you believe me, now?" he asked, and there was little change in his voice, little in his bearing, for, unlike Asgard, those trappings of identity had staying power of their own. Sirius and Remus sat there, frozen.

"You—You're—"

Loki sighed. This could take some time, after all. At least they were all on the same page. For the most part.

"Well, perhaps you should explain your role in this, Thor, while they are too distracted to interrupt. I promise to minimise my own interruptions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter and the next.  
> Which is just as well, considering how much I hate the chapter after that.


	17. Now That We're All on the Same Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter. In this one, we learn how The Marauders met Loki, and Harry explains more about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys get an early chapter, again. And, on one of my favourites, too. :)

Sirius and Remus, of course, would have none of this. They insisted that they needed further information, and time to process the entire thing, which, if you thought about it, how often did life give anyone opportunity to adjust before it threw further surprises in their faces? Had _Harry_ been given time to adjust that night, not even a year ago, not even last year, yet, when his life had been turned on its head?

But, most unfortunately for him, he was not in control of the narrative any longer, and Thor decided to pick now to be courteous. It was infuriating, but it appeared that the impending question-and-answer session would come first, and the two would get a period of adjustment denied their interlocutors.

Well, no one with any sense or experience said that life was fair. And he had considerably more patience, when he was busy being _Loki_ , and not Harry Potter.

"You—you're really _him_ ," said Sirius, shaking his head in something like wonderment. "I don't _believe_ this."

"Yes, well, don't get _too_ comfortable. There is, after all, another me out there, as there is also a far more impulsive and reckless Thor. Do _not_ let your guard down, on that front."

"Our paths are not likely to cross," Thor insisted.

"You know, you're nothing like what I was expecting," Sirius mused, turning to him. "I mean, Loki _did_ talk a lot about you."

"Let me guess: he said that Thor was irresponsible, arrogant, conceited, and didn't appreciate that he was the centre of attention back home. And also, perhaps, that their father liked Thor much better, and… in general had nothing good to say about him," Loki said.

"Well…" said Remus, attempting to be diplomatic.

"I am sure that much of what he said was true, then," Thor said, sounding almost ashamed. "I am not proud of who I was, then."

"We did spend a lot of time complaining about our families," Sirius admitted. "What with how much time he had to spend in this awful house."

Loki sat up straight. "Ah. _That_ is why this house felt familiar. But this gap in my memory…I have no knowledge of the times you describe. As Thor has, it seems, decided to give you time to recover before continuing our absurd tale of time travel and apocalypses, perhaps you might answer some of _my_ questions."

"Fire away," Sirius said, in a cheerful voice. Remus edged back from the table, as if to flee the ensuing conversation. It occurred to Loki that Remus might not be proud of his behaviour, then. He was hardly prankster material, now, and the Marauders had been incorrigible.

Loki leant forwards. "How did we meet, then?"

That was something he couldn't put together. He had no memory of it occurring, but, as he now recognised, the effects of their meeting—a myriad tiny things—lingered in his subconscious, influencing his own actions. That feeling of camaraderie that had led him to be rather less polite to Professor Lupin than he was to all the other professors; his immediate impression that he could trust Sirius Black, from when they'd first met; the déjà vu when he'd first arrived at the now derelict Grimmauld Place. How much time had he spent here, for it to seem familiar? How much time had he spent with them, to develop a lasting friendship that bled through into this life? How had they met _at all_ , when no one back home visited this world, and the inhabitants of Midgard scarcely had the capacity to visit on their own? It couldn't have been a World-Gate; he'd yet to encounter one in the Wizarding World, and the presence of one leading to the Wizarding World back home would have had _obvious_ effects here.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, as if they'd fervently wished he'd asked something else. _Now_ , his curiosity was piqued, if it hadn't been before.

"Well…" Sirius began. "You know, your dad and I were…a bit _precocious_ —"

"—obscenely gifted and brilliant, more like—" Remus interrupted, with a strange sort of wistful despair.

"—and we were always looking for ways to test our limits. The Black library is full of forbidden knowledge, and rare texts, which were fodder for some of our better ideas—and some of our worse ones.

"From the summer that I first was sorted into gryffindor, my 'family' made my life a living hell every time I returned home, and when they weren't looking down on me and implying that they'd have been better off if I'd never been born, they ignored me. Kreacher didn't feed me; I had to get my own food, somehow. I did my homework apart from everyone else, and didn't mind at all, wishing that I could have been born to a family like the Potters.

"But I didn't run away, because… well, at first it was because I didn't think I was self-sufficient enough to last on my own, but I had to do that anyway. But I was trying to minimise the effect their politics had on my little brother, Regulus. Not that it worked; he joined the Death Eaters. I heard him talking about the side he'd chosen back when he was only thirteen, and… I guess I sort of snapped. I was trapped, all alone in this house, with nothing but my family's hatred, and ire, and Kreacher's jeers. It's a horrible enough house when you _don't_ know its secrets."

He glanced around the room with haunted eyes, ashen and shaking, looking wan and worn, and twenty years older than he was. He shivered, and swallowed, hard. There was a moment when no one said anything, because what _could_ be said, to such a statement? And then, incredibly, Sirius gave a small, beleaguered laugh, and continued.

"The only good thing about it was that I had access to the library, to research whatever I desired. And, as a resident of Grimmauld Place, I could reveal its location, which would otherwise have remained hidden, to my friends. I lived for the days when they paid me visits, because I knew my parents would restrain themselves, somewhat, around them. After all, your dad, James, was a pureblood. That made him worth noticing. And _Pettigrew_ ," he spat the name.

"It might have been the only favour that rat did for me, the only thing I have to be grateful to him for. And, as it was at Hogwarts, where we would later keep Moony company on nights of the full moon, my friends stood by me whilst I was imprisoned here. We researched things together in the Black library, and pooled our ideas for pranks for the coming year. Those were the best days."

His faraway gaze suggested that he was focusing on the better days, instead of whatever horrid memories still walked these halls as his companion. _Progress_ , noted some corner of Loki's mind, the one tackling Sirius's recovery. _Insufficient, but progress._

But mostly, he was listening to the tale, waiting with patience for it to come to its point. Thor was shifting and fidgeting, and clearly considering the merits of returning to try to see out the grime-covered window.

"My parents, understand, were diehard Christians, for all their fanaticism about purebloodedness and superiority that you would think would go against the message of equality, goodwill towards men, what-have-you. They weren't churchgoers—there were too many _muggles_ there, but they'd go to Easter and Christmas Eve Mass, to make an impression. I hated it.

"James had a lot more freedom. He'd come over here, some days, to hang out, but his parents never tried to shoehorn him into their own belief-system. But all that time in the library…that was where I first encountered _mention_ of older gods. I suppose I should have realised they existed, or that people had even worshipped other gods, before, but my parents were very exclusivist, and closed as many doors to different ideas as they could, for us. It was like a breath of fresh air.

"I suppose I gathered the thoughts together in my mind, paying attention without _knowing_ I was paying attention, gathering data, noting similarities and commonalities and the like, building my own theories. I suppose I didn't consciously realise that I was doing it, but, when I pulled down that old _Enkyklopaidia Theon Palaiteron_ , I was looking for a God of _Mischief_ , even then. I assumed that anyone I would find would be much the same as any other. And there were gods for everything else—why _not_ mischief? Incorrigible pranksters that we Marauders were, I was sure we'd hit it off with a god devoted to such with ease. I know, that sounds incredibly foolish."

Loki shrugged. "You must have met with _some_ success," he said. "Although your tale has yet to address my question."

Sirius gave a sort of wistful smile. A glance at Remus showed that, in fact, all of the tale thus far was news to him, or he wouldn't have been listening with an avid focus, even if his brow was furrowed, perhaps in confusion, perhaps in concern for Sirius's treatment by his family, which sounded about as pleasant as the Dursleys, if you could judge such by only oblique references.

Thor frowned and tapped his feet, but, thus far, had yet to interrupt. He probably wanted to know as much as Loki did. At least _he_ had good cause not to know.

"This encyclopaedia being what it was, or being as old as it was, it had nothing about the gods of the Americas, or African (except for Egypt) or Asian ones, even. It was focused squarely on Europe. It had been written in Latin, but, as a pureblood, I had been trained to read Latin before my family had decided I was unworthy of further instruction. The introduction to the book spoke of the gods as if they'd had interactions with human beings—as if they still _did_ interact with human beings, when the book had been written. It served to reinforce a conviction I wasn't even aware of, yet. Then, I came across… _your_ name, and I thought, 'aha!'"

That ellipsis, there, was probably to be expected, but Loki scowled, nonetheless.

"Hey, hey, go easy on me! I'm still getting used to all this! Your presence _does_ seem to send the world into a sort of localised chaos, doesn't it?" He shook his head, but his smile was full of affection.

Loki had no background to know how to respond. He stared at the table, unable to meet Sirius's gaze. Thor decided this was a good time to take a seat next to him, as if to provide moral support. Loki considered snapping at him, telling him that he was _fine_ , and would Thor stop his senseless worrying, already? Instead, he rested his head on his hands, and stared off at the wall, listening intently.

"Well, with the knowledge that there _was_ such a god, I decided on a very stupid plan of action, that could, in retrospect, have easily backfired. I think you probably remember that night, when we sort-of met for the first time and I said that being smart just meant that you were the more liable to make some spectacularly stupid decisions, because you don't see the dangers of your own plans. I was so used to being able to think my way out of anything, to get _away with_ everything. To being able to _do_ anything. Your dad and I—we had so much success, even with difficult spells. We had what we thought was an intuitive knowledge of magic. Of course, that was before _someone_ rearranged the way we thought about magic…as well as most everything else."

He didn't bother glancing at Loki to see if he'd made his meaning plain: even Thor got it. Remus gave a weak sort of smile, shaking his head.

"I should have done more to stop you two from getting into so much trouble—I was a prefect in fifth year; Dumbledore trusted me to use that authority to—"

"He just chose you because you were the least likely to make trouble of the four of us," Sirius said. "Anyway, I took Ancient Runes because it was an elective that sounded interesting and versatile, which it is, by the way; I don't know why you're taking Divination and Care of Magical Creatures."

"It is difficult to live all of your life on Asgard and not come away with _some_ knowledge of runes. Arithmancy is a boring, logic-bound discipline, and I was raised by muggles, if you have forgotten," Loki said, ticking the items off with his fingers, in what he couldn't help noting was a very human gesture. "What remains to me, then, if not those two classes? But there is more to it than that. I wished to know how it was that humans knew more about _me_ than I knew of myself. That was why I chose Divination. Thor's motives remain mystery—"

"I…heard of beings known as the Norns, from 'Norse Mythology', and wished to know if they were real, and what prophecies might exist concerning our world. Furthermore, Stephen said something about you and something called 'Ragnarök', when first we met."

Sirius suddenly understood why Loki was always silencing Thor with death glares. He wished he could do the same, but suspected that intimidating a god was far outside his abilities.

Loki paled, and shifted his chair, leaning away from Thor. "Ah. _That_ ," he said.

Remus inhaled sharply. "You've heard of it."

"I encountered it when researching Norse Mythology myself, before I knew. During that long period of time when I was recovering my memories, in the _year_ after my tenth birthday. It mentioned an older sister, about whom I have heard no mention: Hela or Hel, a goddess of Death or the Underworld. However, as I also heard nothing concerning adoption…." The rest of his sentence rested implicit. He trusted that his meaning was clear.

"Loki," Thor began, his voice pitched lower, in warning.

"Please continue," Loki said, in quite a different voice. It was such an abrupt shift in demeanour that everyone in the table knew that it was fake. Sirius glanced at him in evident concern, and then looked away, seeming to believe that the best choice was just to continue his tale.

"Well, I started researching all that I could find about old arrays and summoning magic, the sort of stuff that no one has used in centuries—it's outdated and unreliable, not to mention extremely dangerous. But I was so sure that, between James and me, we could find a way to stabilise the array so that it wouldn't siphon off our lifeforce, or create some sort of obscene bond between caster and summoned.

"Most of the arrays had been highly edited, names crossed out, ingredients changed, the works. A lot of the copies we had were Christianised, talking about demons and monsters, but I thought… well, I remembered something I'd once heard, that when Christianity spread across Europe, the Christians thought it easier just to slap Christian names and titles onto existing gods, changing them superficially into angels and saints, so _maybe_ …."

He shook his head, as if just now realising how stupid the entire affair was, which couldn't be the case, as he'd led into the tale with that admission.

Remus, by contrast, was staring at him in horror. "You didn't think it through _at all_ , then?"

Sirius sighed, and buried his head in the crook of his elbow. "I know, I know! It was stupid. It could have gone very, very wrong, but I came up with my _own_ array, and I had James check it over…he was good at that, I was so sure that between the two of us, we'd catch any _dangerous_ issues."

"A _summoning_ circle?" Loki demanded. "Do you mean to tell me that you used one of those circles…the ones they use in _movies_ , to call me into this world?"

…He didn't even know whether he ought to be offended or amused. The latter was doing its best to win out.

Remus and Sirius refused to meet his gaze.

"It took me a great deal of time just to figure out how to undo some of the basic protections set into arrays at the start—one of the first things they have you do, usually, is close the circle, so that nothing can exit it. If you break that circle, the being inside is freed, but I thought that putting a god in a circle would just be…wrong. The sort of disrespect he wouldn't tolerate—I was raised Christian, after all—and then he'd blast us to smithereens, because there was no way that a spell circle could hold him."

Loki cocked his head, considering the thought. A spell circle could almost certainly hold him _now_ , but _then_? Was it arrogance to say that he quite agreed with Sirius, that he could almost certainly have broken the circle?

"You used a _summoning circle_ ," he said, shaking his head. "And…what?"

He tried to put together what he remembered of his most recent time on Midgard, which was not at all good, with being summoned or bound by humans. The result would not be pretty.

Sirius didn't look at him. "We were _not_ instant-besties," he said, a bit of sarcasm slipping into his voice. "We were all there, because there were four of us, and there are four elements, and four cardinal directions. It made it easier to call the quarters, and all that. I don't think you liked _any_ of us, but you seemed relieved not to be wherever it was you came from.

"You started off by saying something like, 'Who are you, and how dare you presume to summon _me_?' which was when I thought I'd made a very dangerous mistake. I suppose I assumed you'd be all mirth and cheer, and a constant bundle of fun, not all…broody. It made you seem…more of an actual person, with feelings and all that. Less of an idea. Realer. I kind of felt…bad, for calling you away from home, until you said, 'Well, if nothing else, you have given me something else to think of than the coming Coronation. I suppose they would not notice my absence, providing I am not away for more than two or three years.' And you sounded so bitter and hurt, that I… I thought…I don't even know what I thought. I thought that, maybe, independent of anything else, that we could _help_ you. That we weren't so different, after all."

Loki said nothing. He was looking at the table, now. He could remember how it was, to be that bitter, and jealous, and _hurt_.

Thor's hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned. Thor looked wretched and guilty, as if he were about to start crying. "Don't you _dare_ start crying, Thor," Loki said. "I suppose you might make the true statement that you overlooked me in the past, but you are here _now_ , when I least expected to find you. You gave up _everything_ for me. I think that has rather more weight. This lies in the past; treat it as such."

He did not, of course, look at Thor when he said this. What was the point?

Sirius quirked an eyebrow, and shook his head.

"You two have a more screwed-up dynamic than me and _my_ little brother," he said. Despite being a former professor, Remus did not correct his grammar in that sentence. He was, after all, the "cool" professor.

"Never mind that; what happened then?" Loki demanded, and Sirius hesitated.

"Well," he said, at last. "We were all a bit…intimidated by you, you know, especially with that armour that you were wearing a few minutes ago on."

"Only an illusion," he said, careful not to let any sort of wistfulness or regret creep into his tone. He had the sense that he might not have been quite successful, to judge by the way Sirius's eyes narrowed, just a bit. Although, that might also be because he'd interrupted. (Hey, he'd told _Thor_ he'd try to minimise his interruptions, and not _Sirius_.)

"Well, the four of us were Marauders, and true gryffindors, for the most part. And since this was _my_ house—or, at least, since _I_ lived here, it fell to me to introduce us. I sort of wish I'd had the nerve to sneak the materials we'd need out to your dad's place—" he shook his head, clearly a bit disoriented at trying to keep two identities straight. "Man, this is weird. But, anyway, here we were, in the most obscure corner I could find of this house—I was sure no one in my family was going to interrupt any time soon, but I realised that I didn't know how long you'd be here, or anything, and it felt kind of silly, wondering how you went about hiding a god…but then, we hadn't got any confirmation of your identity or anything. That's why I introduced us. Took all my gryffindor courage, though," he added, with a regretful shake of his head.

"You made a good choice," Loki murmured. "I would have respected your courage. Daring and courage are greatly valued back home."

"Don't go tacking on ' _show no weakness_ ', alright?" Sirius said. "I get it, already. What, is that the royal family's motto?"

Loki looked over at Thor, just a glance, and turned back to Sirius. "I suppose you might say that."

"Well, I introduced us, and you, who I suppose are inevitably quick on the uptake, seemed to hear the unspoken cue, and you said, 'I am Loki Odinsson, Prince of Asgard. Why have you called me hither?' in the most imperious voice I've heard from anyone, _including_ my parents, and before then, they were my marker for that.

"Anyway, we told you about the Map—what else were we going to do?—and you sort of smiled, and said, 'Well, I _suppose_ I might remain here to assist you with that task', which was never going to be over and done with quickly. I sort of realised, then, that we were in this for the long haul—or rather, that _I_ was. At least you seemed to have some sort of sense of the lay of the land. We had a preliminary planning session, in which you made it quite clear that you weren't impressed with any of us, and then, at the end, you disappeared.

"When I think back on it, I think you probably spied on me quite a bit—perhaps to figure me out. That's pretty creepy, by the way. All I know is that you were always almost impossible to find. I paid attention to my intuition—what muggles call a 'sixth sense', on the lookout for times when the room seemed to be empty, but I thought I was being watched.

"I just sort of…talked about my family, about how much I hated my parents' pureblood politics, and how sure I was that Regulus was headed down the wrong road…come to think of it, I've never told _you_ much about my family, have I? I mean…well, you know what I mean. The point is, I talked to you a lot about how much my family sucked, whenever I thought you were around. And I was given the task by my _friends_ —" he glared at Remus, who looked down at the table with his most sheepish expression, "—of finding you whenever we were going to work on the Map. And I sort of learnt how to find you—you spent most of your time sulking in one particular room. But as time went on, you spent more of it researching. I'm pretty sure wizarding magic fascinated you."

Loki's eyes narrowed at the blatant smugness in Sirius's smirk, but he said nothing.

"You were smart enough not to show yourself to anyone in my family—but as time went on, if I started talking to you in an empty room, and you were _there_ —and I was usually right, later on—you'd show yourself. You started talking to me about _your_ family, and I thought I got a pretty good impression of its dynamics, and how screwed up Asgard is. I wished that you would just…stay here.

"But you stayed, even after we finished that Map. Remus had taken it into his head that you needed to learn how to speak like a human being, which was sort of our payment to you—not a fair exchange, but you didn't seem to mind, by the time we finally worked up enough courage to bring it up."

Remus was looking at the table, and saying nothing. His face was very red.

"Anyway, I think, more than anyone else, you and I became sort-of friends. When I ran away from home, you came with me. I don't think you'd left the house before. But that was a year after. In the meantime, someone—I don't remember who—made the mistake of mentioning the war, all about what was going on with Voldemort, and that. You offered to teach us how to fight, and we made the mistake of accepting—I don't think my shoulder has ever fully recovered, thank you."

He glared at Loki, who grinned in return. Sirius laughed, and, for once, there was no bitter rancour behind it. Nostalgia was kind to him.

"You taught us other things, too—I don't know what all. _I_ wanted to know how to use what you called your 'seventh sense', which you just _had_ to tell me I might not even have. I don't know what anyone else asked for, though. I suppose I'll never know what _Wormtail_ or your dad asked for."

"I wanted some way of shaming you lot—of reining you in. It even worked, sometimes," Remus said, head in his hands. He dragged his hands forward, pulling his mouth into a pout, and let go. "I tried. You helped," he added, with a glance at Loki.

"You did leave eventually…I assumed you'd contact us again, and perhaps you did, now I think. But where would you have looked? Your grandparents died in '79—that was the only house other than this one that you knew. Less than a decade after we summoned you, that house lay abandoned, and I was in Azkaban. How would you have found us? We should have thought of all those eventualities…but I suppose, as we were only about your age, now, it makes sense that we didn't. Gah, this is confusing!"

That he was asking for backup was obvious, but none was forthcoming.

"I think that's about it. I'll have to tell you a bit about my family. You don't remember what I said before, clearly."

Loki leant back, thinking over their tale, trying to make sense of it, which Thor did not help with by shifting incessantly. There was a sound from outside the room—a crash, if he could guess, and he was instantly wary, on alert.

Maybe it was only Kreacher, he thought, but hadn't he heard a voice just now?

"That sounded like Stephen," Thor said, frowning, looking and sounding as if he very much doubted his own ears.

"Stephen? Here?" Loki asked, about to demand how that could happen. And then, he sighed. How? Well, all he would have had to do was show Stephen this place in the future.

"Stephen? The mysterious 'sorcerer' you mentioned earlier? How could he have gotten through all of my dad's protective charms? And—and _you_ put up some barriers, too. How?" asked Sirius, perking up.

" _I_ will see whether or not it is he. All three of you shall remain _here_."

"Why did we go through all the bother of teaching you modern English if you're going to talk like that?" asked Sirius, resting his forehead on his hand, applying pressure, as if against a headache. Loki ignored him, standing before turning to face Thor again. It would make some strange sort of sense, if it _were_ Stephen. Stephen knew how to make an entrance.

It was, indeed, Stephen. And this was only the first of Stephen's many dramatic entrances to come, but they couldn't know that at the time.

Loki returned to the table a short time later leading Stephen, who was dressed in those same strange robes as always, and looking rather dusty, but little the worse for wear. Thor beamed at him as he entered. "Stephen!" he cried, standing to greet him, although they'd last seen him not even a week ago (why was he here at all?).

Loki glared at Thor for getting ahead of himself. "Stephen, these are Sirius Black, my dogfather, and Remus Lupin. You might remember that I mentioned them." Stephen took the hidden message, because he was smart: these were the men that they were working to save. Loki didn't glance in his direction, gaze fixed instead upon Sirius and Remus. "Sirius, Remus, this is Doctor Stephen Strange. He is a sorcerer, but a time traveler who came from the future to help us."

Sirius stared. Perhaps he'd had too many surprises in one day.

"Hello?" he asked, as if on a walkie talkie, uncertain whether or not he was on the right channel.

"A pleasure," said Remus, with a tired smile, standing up to offer Stephen a hand to shake.

"You aren't from a different world, are you?" asked Sirius, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'm from America, if that counts. Sometimes Britain seems like a completely different world."

Stephen sat down to Loki's left—and Loki returned to his own seat.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important," Stephen began, but Loki just _had_ to cut in.

"Has something happened, in the future?"

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know why I'm here. _You_ sent me, again. Told me I'd figure it out. By which, I assume, you mean that you sent me here so that I could meet these two."

"We were about to speak of the coming war," Loki mused. "Such talk would invariably have concerned you."

"Wait a second," Sirius protested. "'Coming _war_ '?"

"I made mention of a being that returned life to me after I died on his world—"

"Thanos," said Stephen. "His name sounds a bit like 'Thanatos', the Greek God of Death. I don't know whether or not to consider that a coincidence."

"Is anything a coincidence?" asked Loki. "They seem scarce, of late. Your timing, for instance, could not have been better chosen."

Sirius noted to himself that Loki seemed to have advanced a few centuries in his diction, and decided that Stephen was an acceptable influence.

"By which you mean you were about to induct them into your evil plans to save the world," Stephen said. "God, now _I'm_ calling them that, too."

Somehow, no one commented on this last exchange at all.

"You're dragging us into a _war_?" asked Sirius, instead. Remus wasn't moving. He may have at last succumbed to information overload.

Loki cocked his head, with a grim smile. "I understand you have some familiarity with wars. This is not the sort of conflict you would be inclined to ignore. Thanos is a madman: He slaughters the half of every world he conquers, and calls it _mercy_. He believes that he is restoring order to the universe. Who can say whence comes his conviction that mass slaughter is indistinguishable from altruism?"

"Do you _always_ describe him the same way?" asked Stephen, his voice higher than usual with incredulity.

Everyone ignored this question.

"That sounds…bad," Remus said, sounding a bit dazed and winded, as if he'd just been thoroughly trounced. Nothing was said to this colossal understatement, either.

"I must have seen fit to introduce all those involved in the coming war to one another. The sooner we commence planning, the better prepared we'll be."

"Since you're letting the Chitauri Invasion happen anyway, I'd love to see how you plan to get into Director Fury and the Avengers' good graces."

Sirius gave a smothered snort. "Sorry. Just sounds like a bad band name."

He was not wearing one of his rock band t-shirts, today, or Stephen would have been sure to make a sarcastic comment about this.

"Hey, we're on the same page, now," Loki said, sounding _almost_ normal, _almost_ Harry, and thereby disorienting everyone else in the room.

It was a start, and that was all that mattered.


	18. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Luna attend the Yule Ball

Finding Ron new dress robes had to wait for later in their stay, but Harry absolutely insisted upon them. "You are the Crown Prince," he insisted. "I refuse to look the other way and let you go to the Ball in _those_ rags. Your father would be ashamed."

He deftly ignored the pretests that "he is your father, too". They were expected, by now.

Sirius had been set to the task of finding hand-me-downs from his own school days—and his brother, Regulus's. These were failsafes, in case they hadn't been able to go to Diagon Alley and Madam Malkin's for more modern ones, or if Ron insisted on being so stubborn as to refuse to let Harry spend any money on him.

But Ron, despite his massive reservoirs of courage, nevertheless quailed before the prospect of sorting through the old pureblood closets—or perhaps at Sirius's sharky grin. Ron suffered himself to be dragged to Diagon Alley, accompanied by Sirius, and Tonks, who took to appearing at Grimmauld Place for dinner, always spending most of her time with Remus, who may or may not have understood her intentions.

Over the next few days before the Yule Ball, many more explanations had to be made, about a hundred topics. Harry would only talk to Sirius and Remus about Loki's stay at Grimmauld Place, and after, when he was sure that no one else was there to listen in, which included Tonks. She was not in the know about most of the tale.

Loki had sworn both of them to secrecy concerning the coming war, not trusting the Ministry, or Wizarding Society in general, and even less Dumbledore, who was clever, but with his own designs. No one must know about the important things ( _Thanos_ , Stephen, Mother) who might be inclined to make decisions affecting the outcome of the next few decades.

And, yes, he told them about Mother, which discussion put them all into a rather brooding, stony silence. Stephen returned on that Thursday. He did not comment on the lack of Christmas decorations, which was just as well, as Kreacher had done enough of that for the last week that everyone else felt no need to contribute, either. There was a sort of peaceful reprieve, in which Harry researched _things_ in the Black library. Sirius seemed both horrified, and resigned.

"If Loki was here before, didn't he research how to cure Professor Lupin's lycanthropy?" Harry once asked, and Sirius's brows shot up. If that had been one of the things Loki had been researching, he hadn't said. It made some sense, however.

"I don't know. Why are you talking about yourself in the third person? I'll never come to terms with it, at this rate."

Harry just grinned, and then frowned. "It makes it easier for me to come to terms with, myself. Until that night we met—for the second time, I suppose—I was still deluding myself into thinking that it was all a dream. I need time to acclimate myself. And I have other concerns, besides. The egg from the tournament defies all attempts at solving its hidden message. I can't prove that Moody is the culprit who put my name into the Goblet of Fire. Fred and George need help with their joke shop. The Yule Ball is coming up. I have much to think of. Perhaps someday, I shall have the liberty of thinking of everything, freely. Until then, I will spend my time productively."

Sirius folded his arms, staring at Harry's stack of books, not all of which were in English. His eyebrows rose again. "Let me know how I can help you," he said, settling into a nearby chair. Harry promptly forgot he existed, which was just as well.

* * *

They arrived back at school earlier than they would have liked, to prepare for the Yule Ball. Harry cast a glance at the Foe-Glass, to see how the silhouettes had progressed in his almost weeklong absence. They were far from distinct, but gaining in opacity. Not that he'd expected to avoid the danger entirely; he was no fool. Now that they were back at Hogwarts, Harry felt his wariness return to him, renewed by the knowledge that his potential allies were halved. Dumbledore would hardly heed his warnings concerning Moody. He was on his own—except for Ron and Hermione.

Now, again, the egg of the First Task became the second most pressing concern—after the immediate one. Ginny had been kind enough to arrange a place for him and Luna to meet. After all, she was a ravenclaw, which would seem to exclude the most obvious choices for meeting places. Of course, Percy had dated that ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater, but he was off doing who-knew-what for Bartemius Crouch.

Harry would be somewhat disquieted to learn that, as Crouch was now indisposed for mysterious reasons, Percy Weasley would be remaining to judge the Tournament. Still, he noted the news with a stab of vindictive pleasure, at the suffering of the man who'd sent Sirius to Azkaban, without a trial.

The usual tacit assumption that each house would stick to its own table was, as usual, set aside for the Christmas Feast. He had never come around to asking Ron his thoughts concerning Christmas, which he would do later, he decided, but he could appreciate the festive atmosphere, and general good-spirits of those present at the feast. Even the snobby students of Beauxbatons were impressed when Hogwarts pulled out all the stops. Hermione was, for once, not going on about how slave labour had created their meal.

Luna sat to Harry's left, glancing around the room with some interest, although, as a third year, she'd seen Hogwarts decorated for Christmas before. Hagrid always brought in quite a few trees, procured from places unknown, but, owing to their need to show off to the foreign delegates, they'd gone further than usual this year. The walls were strung all over with garlands of holly and popcorn, and the trees had actual fairies buzzing amongst their branches and commenting (and giggling) at the festivities. And then, there was the problem of the plant Harry recognised only from a drawing in the picture book that Everett-Smith had derided: mistletoe. The plant that some myths held that Loki had killed a god with.

That was one of only two facts he knew about the plant, the other being that it was poisonous. He couldn't understand why it was hanging in drooping bundles above the doors to the room, nor why people seemed to giggle at it as they passed beneath on their way to the feast.

Not that he was watching very closely. But he still rather suspected that he was missing something. It had to be connected to Christmas _somehow_ , didn't it? It wasn't as if the Dursleys had exposed him to much lore. They hadn't even gone wassailing.

He shrugged, and dismissed the entire thing as unimportant, for the moment, which he would regret later.

Luna was taking a count of the creatures that only she seemed able to see (or sense?), but she seemed to be in a good mood. Ron and Hermione sat across from them, Ron looking as if he were absolutely sure that his little brother needed monitoring. The overprotective big brother thing should be limited to being directed towards girls.

Or, maybe that made Harry sexist. It was impossible to tell, at this point. The Dursleys had twisted a system of morality that could hardly be considered conventional anyway into knots.

He shrugged. Christmas was a time of mystery and indecision for him. He'd feel better about the entire thing when the day was over. In the meantime, he had to brace himself for being in the middle of the spotlight, and opening the Yule Ball.

"It all looks so pretty," Luna said, in her dreamy voice. "I wonder how they did all of this decorating without us seeing it. Did you have a good visit with your godfather?"

He didn't remember telling her that. Perhaps Ginny had said something. He glanced over at Ginny and Neville. Ginny was smiling and laughing at something Neville had said, and he had to look away. He had a date. He should be more grateful. He turned back to Luna.

"It was a good change of pace," he decided. "None of the stares and glares from Hogwarts in general. No one expecting me to save the world. I didn't make any progress on that egg, though," He scowled at this last admission. "What about you? What have you been doing?"

Luna looked thoughtful. "Mostly, I've been looking for my shoes. People tend to take my belongings throughout the year, and hide them somewhere—I've yet to discover where. But they're kind enough to return them at the end of the year, so I guess there's that."

Harry stared at her. "They steal your belongings? You have no shoes? Luna, that is…" _wrong_ , his mind supplied, but he glanced around, instead, as if expecting a chorus to supply the word for him. Luna was still smiling a dreamy smile.

He glanced down at her feet, but they were hidden under her dress, which was a rich, leaf green, as if she'd known all along that she'd be going with Harry, and had chosen the dress to match those bottle glass green robes Mrs. Weasley had bought him (for some reason) instead of buying ones for Ron. Perhaps Luna was a seer. He turned the thought over in his head, twice, and then set it aside.

Dinner was a very chatty affair for everyone but them. Luna would occasionally pause to point something out, but Ginny was right—they were both rather weird, in their own way.

He needed to stop thinking about Ginny. He should just be grateful that Luna had agreed to come with him. She'd even set aside her radish earrings, although she'd kept her necklace of butterbeer caps (for luck, she said), replacing them with more conventional jewelry. She was rather pretty, and her perpetual calm made a good balm against his constant wary agitation. And she was nice, and intelligent. He loved hearing about all the creatures her dad had told her about. There was never a shortage of interesting conversation, with Luna around.

Ron was definitely Hermione's date for the ball (or the other way 'round), which was another source of vicarious happiness for Harry. He could be glad for his brother finding another intellectual brunette, albeit one far less open to new ideas, ones without reams and reams and heavy tomes of proof. He shrugged. At least he wouldn't have to deal with their arguments quite as much, now that they'd finally admitted their feelings, or whatever.

"Well, think about it," Luna said. "They gave you a trial by combat, which you avoided altogether. The next should be a trial by ordeal. And remember, all of these Tasks take place here at Hogwarts. They probably don't want anyone going into the Forest, which violates the treaty we have with the centaurs and acromantulai, anyway, which just leaves the quidditch grounds, the Black Lake, and Hogwarts, itself."

He shuddered at the thought of being expected to return to the Chamber of Secrets, and glanced at Ginny again. Then, he shook his head. It was absurd to think that they'd even be able to access the hidden chamber. Luna had a point, though. There were only so many places the Second Task could take place…but just how versatile was wizarding magic, anyway? Could it create its own little microcosm?

Perhaps the Second Task would take place within these very walls. But…how long did it take them to set up a Task? Wouldn't they risk someone seeing? Of course, by then, it would be too late to prepare….

"Perhaps Cedric would be willing to assist me in figuring this out. We might pool our resources and knowledge. This might be another case where I was expected to know something that is part of more advanced study."

Luna smiled brightly at him. "Oh, no. they would never make the Task that easy. The professors all agree that you have the intelligence of a much higher grade student. They're not going to underestimate you, but I don't think the Second Task is familiar to _anyone_. Although, I _have_ seen Viktor Krum diving into the Lake once of twice with the egg. I wonder if that means anything."

As did Harry. Still, if he'd done more than once…maybe he had figured something out?

Something about water? Well, he'd think about it later.

For now, his responsibilities as Champion, no matter that he hadn't asked for it, took centre stage—more or less figuratively _and_ literally. Straightaway after dinner, the Champions were obliged to enter the Great Hall again, with their dates, all very formal and grand, and somewhat familiar. What a hassle.

It gave him the opportunity to note the other Champions, how overdressed they all looked, except Fleur Delacour, who was incapable of looking either overdressed or underdressed. She almost glowed in her gauzy robes of blue. He didn't recognise her date—someone at Hogwarts, he was sure. Davy something? It didn't matter.

Krum had brought either Padma or Parvati Patil—he couldn't tell them apart, even though they broke the usual identical twin mould by being in different houses. In fact, he'd forgot about Padma entirely until Colin had gone on about hoping that Dennis would be in gryffindor, and Hermione had noted the difference in houses. Was there a reason for him to keep track of them?

Cedric had come with Cho Chang, the Seeker for Ravenclaw. And wasn't Davy-whatever on a quidditch team? He wasn't sure, but it made him wonder if Fleur weren't on a house team, if they even had those in France. This all felt a bit of a quidditch gathering. Of course, Luna was indifferent about quidditch, and neither Padma nor Parvati were on a house team. It still seemed rather disproportionately quidditch-centric in the Champions corner.

Krum kept glowering over at Ron and Hermione, for some reason, but Cedric came over, before the formalities could begin, to thank Harry. Harry jumped in, asking if he'd made any progress with the egg. Cedric hesitated.

"I don't _think_ we're supposed to collaborate," he said.

"There's only supposed to be three Champions, too," said Harry, in response. "I think the rule book's out the window, and the odds are against my survival, anyway. I'll let you know if I learn anything else."

Cedric stared at Harry as if he were pulling his leg. Oh, come on. "It's in our best interests to pool our resources. No one at Hogwarts can whine if either of us win. But, I understand if you don't want to collaborate. I'll still tell you what I learn. The other schools assume that we're working together as a team, regardless."

Then, before Cedric could respond, someone started calling in the Champions, starting, of course, with Krum, who entered to wild cheers, and a dramatic fanfare. Fleur and Davy entered next, and Cho sensed her cue, approaching Cedric with a warm smile, and hand outstretched. Her dress was very gauzy and dark blue. That was as much as Harry noticed about the two of them, before he turned his attention to Luna.

"Are you ready?" he asked her. She tilted her head, considering the question.

"I think so," she said, nodding. "What am I expected to do?"

He raised an eyebrow in response. "Well, stand there and look pretty for a few minutes, I think—that shouldn't be too hard for you—and then we dance. You do know the moves for an old-fashioned waltz, don't you?"

Her finger went to her chin, as she considered the question. "I don't think so," she said, nodding as if she'd just made a decision. He sighed. Why didn't Hogwarts give instruction in this sort of thing?

"I suppose I could give you some instruction. But, if I'd cared about making a fool of myself, I should have asked you before. Do you mind looking the fool in front of everyone?"

Luna paused. "Not really," she said, at last, and he smiled at her.

"Brave girl," he said. Luna was possibly a good influence on him. He didn't feel nervous at all, at the idea of being presented to the crowd, and he was sure that he usually would, particularly without Ron and Hermione there to support him.

Cho and Cedric had been called in whilst Harry and Luna had been talking. They were next, and Luna was observant enough—despite her persistent dreaminess—to know to put a hand on his arm. She walked with a peculiar stateliness born of complete apathy as to what everyone else thought. She glanced around with muted curiosity at the proceedings around her. There was no mistletoe over the entryway that they had to use, which, for some reason, came as something of a relief. He didn't want to have to think of all the complicated possibilities it had kept bringing to the front of his mind.

They walked into the Great Hall, and Harry's gaze sought out Ron and Hermione. Hermione had the nerve to roll her eyes at him, in that brief second he had to look at her, but Ron nodded to him. Social functions would never be his favourite thing, but, somehow, the knowledge that his friends, and part of his family, were also here, helped to settle his nerves. He could do this.

At least he had the training to know how to dance. Perhaps the staff of Hogwarts, or elsewhere, might wonder at _how_ he knew, or perhaps they assumed he knew for whatever reasons everyone else did. Perhaps they'd had private instruction, which would just be unfair. Luna was not clumsy, moving with a sort of ghostly grace, gliding as if her feet needn't touch the floor. She was easily led.

It was both a relief and cause for alarm when the band on stage with them ceased from their slow, stately waltz, and started up some sort of fast-paced, wizarding pop music. He was out of the spotlight, free to seek out his friends, and stand aside, but, while he didn't mind dancing, he had no idea how to go about with anything modern.

"Perhaps, if you wish to dance any more, you might give me instruction," he said to Luna, under the music. "Never before did I realise that this style of dancing even existed. The Dursleys are rather…conservative, in all of their tastes."

Luna gave him a vague smile that could as easily have been a "yes" as a "no". Had he expected her to be direct?

He came over to Ron and Hermione, dragging Luna, or rather, leading her, as she was devoid of resistance, and content to be led.

"Where did you learn to dance, Harry?" asked Hermione, sounding politely curious. Harry glanced at Ron, and then looked down at the floor.

"Oh, you know, I just sort of picked it up," he said, not fully attending. "What did the two of you do to offend Viktor Krum?"

Hermione frowned, looking, for once, as if she did not have all the answers. "What? Harry, that wasn't a real answer to my question."

He ignored her. Ron gave him a reproachful frown, to which he just grinned.

"Say, where's Ginny?" he asked, and Hermione sighed, and gave him something of a mirror of Ron's reproval. They were definitely spending too much time together.

"You _have_ a date, Harry," Hermione scolded him, and he folded his arms.

"I am aware of that fact, Hermione," he said. He turned his back on her, turning to Luna. "Do you want to dance?"

Luna gave him a vague smile, that he suspected was meant to be a yes. He offered her a hand, unfolding his arms, and trying to be gryffindor gallant. He may, or may not, have succeeded, but Luna was a ravenclaw, so she didn't have as much room to judge as, say, Ginny would have.

He frowned, as he recognised the reason for Hermione and Ron's reproval.

Still, despite how open and large the Great Hall was, there were quite a few people in the room, and between body heat and activity, Harry found that he was quickly brought to sweating, perhaps a bit faint from the surprising heat of the room.

"Perhaps some fresh air," he murmured to himself. "Luna, would you mind if I left you for a few minutes?"

She blinked at him with her wide eyes. "It is a bit noisy here, isn't it?" she asked, and he remembered that she was ravenclaw's outcast. He took a moment to consider the thought that she might have been maligned and ostracised, even as he had. She was probably as accustomed to being snubbed, and ignored, as he was. More so, because Hogwarts and the Wizarding World usually fixated upon him. Few people even knew of her father, Xenophilius, or that he was the editor of a magazine. He ought to have thought of her.

"Care to escape?" he asked, with a smile.

Her expression was strange in that it lacked its usual dreaminess, as she smiled, and took his hand, and they made for the exit. This was too complicated of a setup.

There were refreshments along the side of the wall, and he made for those, first, because he knew that the secondary exit to the Great Hall led to outside. But, for whatever reason, the entire area was swarming with mistletoe.

Well, okay, "swarming" was probably not the right word. He stood back from it, frowning as he tried to figure out how to leave the Great Hall without either traveling back through the crowd, or encountering the plant. And he'd had his heart set on going outside, too. Fresh air was definitely useful, here.

"Yes, that's probably a good idea," Luna said, nodding sagely. He turned to her, brow furrowed. "They're often infested with nargles," she explained, and he shook his head. Just one more thing to add against them. Why _were_ they everywhere?

Before he could think better of it, he asked the question aloud, sounding petulant even to his own ears.

Luna returned a slightly less dreamy gaze than usual to him, eyes wide in surprise. It was probably cruel of him, but he noted to himself that, yes, Luna's eyes could widen, and, no, they didn't fall out in the process. "Don't you know about mistletoe?" she asked, with a tone of polite curiosity that he would have previously assumed she lacked the capacity for.

He shook his head. "All I know about mistletoe is that it's poisonous. I've been wondering why it's hanging everywhere," he said, leaving out his only other datum. There was no reason to rouse the suspicions of a ravenclaw.

Luna had the nerve to _giggle_ at him. He resigned himself to never understanding girls.

Or, at least, he didn't understand, until Luna, discretely looking around to see if anyone might be listening in, explained the muggle custom behind mistletoe to him. He could _feel_ his cheeks heat up. Oh. That explained it all. Still, what a ridiculous custom! Where would any such idea come from!

And…had Luna thought that he'd stepped back because…because he didn't want to kiss her?

_Did_ he want to kiss her? He was completely out of his depth, here. At least Ron had older relationships to fall back on. Did taking Luna to the Yule Ball constitute a date? It probably did.

He looked at the ground, and led Luna around the table, out of eyesight of most of the hall, to speak with her.

He was even more careful than before to avoid the mistletoe. He was also careful not to look at Luna, to give her time to regain her composure, which she seemed to have permanently affixed to her, which meant that it was to give _him_ time to regain _his_ composure.

"I'm sorry, Luna," he said. He was still not looking at her. "I didn't know that—about mistletoe, I mean."

She just smiled vaguely, which he took as encouragement. "I didn't do it to slight you. You're a great girl, and all—really smart, and pretty, and I didn't mean—" he huffed. He hated it when words let him down. "I mean… _were_ you hoping I'd kiss you?"

Directness was not his usual approach to anything, and it sat awkwardly on him. Luna laughed, and he glanced over at her, again. She did have a very pretty laugh, and they had a lot in common, if he stopped to think about it. And wasn't he always thinking that he was rather ungrateful, when it came down to it?

"I mean, I don't want to force you to, if you don't want to, but I think we're well away from nargles, over here, at least. What do they do, anyway?"

She leant back to glance at the mistletoe garlands, still with that vague smile. "They poke to pinch and poke people, mainly. I suppose they aren't as dangerous as wrackspurts."

Harry shrugged. "That doesn't mean that anyone would seek them out," he said, smiling at her.

"You're a good person," Luna declared, as if this pronouncement were some sort of royal edict. "I like you."

He blinked, and had no idea how to react, which was just as well. She leant forwards, then, staring at him intently as he shifted in sudden discomfort. She had an incredibly penetrating, intense gaze, one that always made him feel as if he'd done something wrong. Perhaps he had let her down. Perhaps he'd done _her_ wrong.

"Luna?" he asked, had the time to ask, before she leant forwards the rest of the way, and pressed her lips against his.

There was a moment's pause as he tried to figure out how you even reacted to something like this—he'd never, _ever_ been kissed, for one thing, and Luna had waited for some invisible cue to even do so. He decided that he'd been missing out, and that, if Luna had never dated before, it was not at all fair that she had to be so warm and lovely and endearing about…everything. What was he thinking, again?

Of course, mistletoe was not useful for prolonged kissing sessions—that would leave the pathways blocked and occupied, so Luna pulled away after a few seconds, and Harry just stood there, stunned, for a few seconds afterwards. It was a very good thing that he thought quickly, on his feet.

Fresh air suddenly seemed imperative, so, vaguely aware that he was holding her hand, still, he dragged her out under the smaller door leading to a corridor leading to another door leading to outside. Hogwarts had to be a complicated place, but this garden was usually here on Sunday nights. That was something.

"Huh," he said to Luna, who stood there, blinking innocent eyes at him. "You are very strange, Luna. but not in a bad way," he said, with the same sort of declamatory voice as she had used earlier, or a reasonable facsimile of it.

She smiled back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I hate this chapter, too. It's not as bad as half of the next chapter, either.  
> I'll...just...hide in a corner, now.


	19. Because Giants Are Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just about Harry's reaction to learning Hagrid is a half-giant. Also Harry/Luna stuff.

The garden was completely devoid of mistletoe, which was almost a disappointment, as he wouldn't have minded kissing Luna again.

Although… they did encounter Professor Snape, and overhear a conversation they most likely shouldn't have, concerning Hagrid, Madame Maxime, and Hagrid's parents. His mind tried to start down an unfortunate track, and he reminded himself that he was in the middle of a ball that only happened once every fifty years (or was it every century?), and that he was here on what seemed to be his first ever date, although he was still a bit unclear on that.

He turned back to Luna, to see how she had taken the news. "We think he's sort of a joke, in Ravenclaw," he said, and he frowned at her.

"Luna, dear," he said, in a deliberately light voice. "Even you ravenclaws can't possibly deny that Hagrid knows his stuff, and besides that, he's one of my best friends. Rescued me from the Dursleys, you know."

Luna just blinked at him, and he sighed. "…Although he hasn't said much to me lately," he had to concede.

Another pause. "You're lucky that I don't hate you, you know," he said, almost teasing, almost warning. Luna, in typical Luna fashion, ignored it all.

"I don't think so," she mused. "You wouldn't have brought me to the Ball if we didn't get on," she said, which was true; he'd told Ginny that, and not Luna, but Luna seemed almost to have a sixth sense for secrets. Or, she was alarmingly good at reading people.

"I don't care that Hagrid's mum is a giant. He's a good person," he insisted. Of far greater concern was whatever it was on Karkaroff's arm that was "growing clearer". Was Snape avoiding Karkaroff, for some reason? Not that Harry could blame Snape, if he was….

Luna interrupted his thought processes by leaning her head into his shoulder, dislodging his thoughts, and increasing his heartrate to thrice its normal rate. They probably shouldn't have sat down, then.

"Are you tired, then?" he asked, trying to figure her out, despite his earlier conclusion that he would never understand girls.

"You are very socially awkward, aren't you?" asked Luna, unusually direct, her tone almost pitying. Odd, considering she was the one whose fellow housemates routinely stole her belongings and hid them from her. He glanced again at her feet, at these thoughts, but they were still invisible under her dress.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot that you aren't wearing any shoes," he said. "How very unchivalrous of me. I suppose I could carry you back inside?"

She giggled, again, and leant further against him, as if to muffle her laughter. "Harry," she said, in an almost non-dreamy voice. "I'm used to it."

He turned to face her fully, forcing her to move her head. "But that isn't _fair_ ," he protested, wondering when he'd decided to adopt the values of House Hufflepuff. Perhaps they'd indoctrinate him as an honorary member, as he was now co-Champion of Hogwarts with Cedric Diggory, one of their own.

She looked back up at him, with a vague smile, some traces of amusement still lurking at the furthest reaches of her eyes. He froze, quite unable to move. He rested an awkward hand on her shoulder, and then realised his mistake. Thus, he basically had both arms wrapped around her.

He immediately thought that he ought to recoil, and shove her away, but he didn't move. He just studied her face, trying to understand her reaction. How could she be so blasé about her mistreatment? Was it something they had in common, then?

His gaze softened—Luna was not the sort of person anyone stayed angry at, even if she'd insulted Hagrid. His offer of chivalry, such as it was, stood.

"You are rather strange, yourself," she said, as if only just noticing this fact, and his lips tried to quirk up into a bitter smile. He sighed, instead, glancing back at the direction whither Hagrid had left, despondent at Madame Maxime's rejection, at her unwillingness to _trust_ , and bit his lip.

"I know," he said, voice very soft, but not with hidden malice, for once. He looked away, and then looked back at her. Rejection was all he had the right to expect. It was what he was used to, for all that he now had friends in Ron and Hermione, Remus and Sirius, and even, he supposed, Stephen. But Luna was, as Ginny had said, a compatible sort of weird.

And it wasn't fair for any of them that he kept dragging Ginny back into the mix.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, and then paused as Luna shivered. "Are you _cold_?"

He tended to forget that the cold existed, on account of how little natural cold ever affected him. But Luna was shivering, and he knew that dress robes were hardly the most practical of garments. "We should go back inside," he said, frowning at her. Once again, he was absolutely sure that there was nothing he could provide in the form of body heat, but he wrapt an arm around her, nonetheless.

"I am a fool," he murmured. "Nevertheless, back inside is doubtless the best place for us to go. Perhaps I can find Ron and Hermione—congratulate them, you know. Maybe show you off, if you'd be willing."

He folded his arms around her, thinking that, at the very least, he could block the winter wind. He was not a very warm person, however, in any sense of the word, and the best thing to do was to get her back inside.

The air in the Great Hall certainly did seem much warmer, after that time spent outside. He sat her down at the gryffindor table, hovering uncertainly behind her.

"I'm fine, Harry," she said. "It's sweet of you to worry."

She did not sound terribly vague right now, either. That made him worry about her rather more. Still…she didn't seem to be lying. He would have known.

He frowned, and slid into the seat next to her with a sigh. He wished that dress robes included a cape, or something. Without looking at her, he wrapt an arm around her shoulder, hoping against hope that it would help to ward off the chill, instead of making it worse, his mind already turning to other matters.

* * *

Harry banged on the door to Hagrid's cabin a few more times, for good measure. This was _almost_ personal. He was still shaking with anger at Rita Skeeter's latest article, but at least he hadn't filled his fists with shards of ceramic, this time. Progress. Thor didn't seem able to decide whether to be concerned or alarmed at Harry's mood, or its implications.

Of course, he'd had a bit of a rant at Thor, first, back in the common room, after he'd first seen the article. Hermione, not in the loop, had been rather perplexed at his behaviour.

"It doesn't matter that Hagrid is completely harmless!" he'd ranted. "All that matters is that he's _half-giant_ , and we all know that giants are irredeemably evil."

He'd glowered at the floor, and, if looks were capable of killing, the floor would have burnt all the way through, and the common room would have had a lovely peephole into the floors below.

"Harry, Rita Skeeter thrives on discord and strife. She wrote this article knowing that Hagrid was your friend, and that is why—"

Harry ignored Thor. Harry was pacing, thoughts racing, more than overtaking his feet with their swiftness.

"We are going to see him, and we are going to show him that none of that matters. It doesn't matter to _you_ , does it?" he asked, fixing Thor with a steely gaze, and Thor suddenly understood what the real problem was. Accordingly, he took a moment to find his best words.

"It never troubled me," he said, voice as quiet as he could make it. "We shall follow your lead, Hermione and I."

"Ron, what the _hell_ is he talking about?" Hermione asked, clearly at her wit's end. She was just about frustrated to the point of tears, but Ron whispered something soothing to her, and pulled her into a hug, and apparently all was forgiven, or forgotten, or something. Harry didn't know; he wasn't paying attention.

He'd stormed (if such a word could ever be used for him) out across the grounds in a bad humour, and Thor had deliberately lagged behind, had allowed him to go first. This was Harry's own, personal battle, after all.

_'It never mattered.' How can Thor not_ _ **care**_ _?_ He'd flinched at the word that his interior monologue would insist upon using, and taken his own inner turmoil out on Hagrid's door.

He was still at it five minutes later, with the same determination. "Hagrid, open up! We don't care about all that ridiculous tripe Skeeter wrote. She doesn't know what she's talking about, and no one with any sense would ever listen to her."

Still nothing.

"Hagrid," he said, his voice lower, and taking on a more dangerous edge. "If you do not open this door, _now_ , I will—"

Dumbledore threw open the door, and Harry reeled back in shock, and then went very red, bowing his head.

"Ah, Headmaster Dumbledore. I believe that I owe you an apology."

But, Dumbledore beamed, twinkling at him. "Not at all, my dear boy. Not at all."

He stood aside, to let the three of them enter. Harry cast him a wary glance as he sidled past, but Ron and Hermione, for good reason, did not seem as disturbed.

"Well, Hagrid, in case you didn't hear, it seems to me that your friends are upset on your behalf, and are quite distraught at your absence over the last few days. If I am not misinterpreting your, ah, rather effusive statements."

Harry stared down at the table, and slid into his usual seat, and said nothing.

"I have received countless letters from parents of Hogwarts students, begging me to keep you on as professor—they remember you fondly from their own Hogwarts days."

Harry snuck a glance at Hagrid, who was standing over by the counter, sniffing incessantly around a face already covered with tears. He brought a pink handkerchief to his nose and blew it, with a loud noise. Harry sighed, and looked away. "Well, yeah, but not—not everyone, not everyone wants me back," Hagrid began, sounding uncertain.

Dumbledore's voice, when he spoke, was rather sharp, "If you are holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid that you will be stuck in here for a very long time."

Harry cocked his head. "That's certainly true. Even Dumbledore doesn't have _universal_ popularity. There will always be someone."

"Well, I think I will leave you in the capable hands of your friends, Hagrid. I refuse to accept your resignation, and expect you back at work this Monday." He cheerfully swept from Hagrid's cabin, apparently content to throw Harry, Ron, and Hermione under the metaphorical bus. Harry could think of nothing Hermione had done to warrant such treatment.

"Yes, Hagrid, please don't leave us to Professor Grubbly-Plank. She's boring," he said, resting his head on his hand, and his elbow on the table. Hagrid chuckled a bit.

"He's right…I've been stupid. Shouldn't let people like that cow Skeeter get to me. Not been treating you lot right, either. Had my head in the clouds, didn't see straight. How to make it up to you…hmm, well, I've been looking through my mementos, you know. Found my picture of my dad, thought you might want to see—he was a real tiny bloke, you know. He was so proud when I got my Hogwarts letter…didn't live long enough to see me expelled, that's the only blessing about that night."

Harry took a moment to consider the question of whether or not anyone had ever informed _Hagrid_ that "You-Know-Who" had been the one to get him expelled. He rather doubted it.

He kept his mouth shut, unsure whether it was even a good idea to bring back up such painful memories, and stared at the old photograph—all in black and white. Hagrid's father was only short in comparison, he decided. Hagrid in the picture couldn't have been older than eight, but he was tall even then. But the friendly, big-hearted smile was just the same, familiar, making Hagrid easily recognisable without concern for proportion.

Even Ron and Hermione had the tact needed not to ask where in this picture Hagrid's mum was, and yet Hagrid explained on his own how she had left him behind with just his dad, when he was a little kid. Then, he went on about how violent and savage giants were, and Harry's fists clenched. He closed his eyes, and leveled his glare out into impassivity before Hagrid could notice. Hermione and Ron noticed, he knew, before his face froze into a dispassionate mask.

There would always be those who knew, as he almost instinctively knew as regarded others, just the right thing to say to break through his barriers, but Hagrid was not one of them, and his aim was not to _hurt_ Harry. He was merely relating his own experience, and for all Harry knew, Hagrid was right.

Hadn't he used a similar argument before? What were the chances that the people of Jotunheim were as savage and monstrous as Asgard painted them as being? There would always be fear and hatred, and as long as there was fear, or hatred, there would be propaganda. Odin had tried to fix that, but he'd tried the wrong way. He should have started by ensuring that his sons inherited none of the biases they'd been raised on.

Thoughts for another time. He needed to redirect the conversation, for the moment.

Hagrid had already done that. "…And when I got to that shack in the middle of the sea, that night when I went to get you to bring you here to Hogwarts, I thought how similar we were…both orphans, both looked down on. You were so small and alone, and I thought I'd try and make things easy for you here. Some friend I've been, eh?"

Harry said nothing.

"It's why you've got to win this Tournament, Harry. You have to show them that it doesn't matter who you are, or where you come from—that you're just as good as everyone else, even though you were raised by those muggles."

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "Haven't made a dent in my egg. I'm working on it."

Hagrid's face fell. "Well, you'll figure it out; I know you will. Clever little tyke, you were, I'm sure. Precocious."

Harry nodded. "I've been told that, yes," he said.

"Thank you, Harry, you're a good friend. You too, Ron, Hermione. Don't know what I'd do without you lot."

Fang whined, and Hagrid ruffled his head fur affectionately, before dragging all four of them into a rather odd hug. Fang was twisted ninety degrees as only dogs can, and was licking all four of them as best he could.

"You'll pull through, Harry. I just know you will," Hagrid said, eyes brimming with tears, again.

"I don't think a long-distance relationship would have worked that well, anyway," Harry said. "Especially if she refuses to listen to you."

Hagrid walked back over to the stove, muttering something about lies and big bones. Harry didn't listen very hard. Ron shot Harry a significant look that he affected not to see. Hermione tossed Skeeter's article into the fire with more violence than strictly necessary, making Fang whimper.

* * *

Luna made no further comments on Hagrid's unsuitability as professor. Instead, she told Harry the location of the ravenclaw dorms, encouraging him to visit, if he were any good at riddles. He thought he might as well. There was something reassuring about her presence, and she was always full of ideas, some more plausible than others, concerning the egg.

"It's definitely fake," he told her for the fifth time, which made her pout. He rested a hand on her back in silent apology, and said, "If it weren't fake, it would probably destabilise the economy. I have no idea how the wizarding economy remains as stable as it is, of course—"

Luna was not interested in economics. She folded her arms and pouted harder, and he gave a little laugh, and shook his head.

"I think that it's just in the shape of an egg because it was amongst the dragon eggs. I don't think its shape is a clue…."

In a way, it was almost reassuring that Luna, a ravenclaw, had no better notions concerning the egg than he.

"I have it!" she cried, and he thought that she'd finally caught one of those invisible creatures she was always on about, until she leapt over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Clarity is the opposite of incomprehensibility! Water is the opposite of fire! That's why Krum is always swimming in the lake."

It was rather disturbing that this made as much sense as it didn't. Not that he was thinking very well, anyway, with Luna so close.

"Hmm," he said, thinking it through quite deliberately. "I'm not sure I understand, Luna…."

"Whatever the Second Task is—it's the opposite of the First Task," she said. "Water instead of fire. Unseen, unheard, instead of seen and heard. You'll be on your own."

His face fell. "Ah. Because I do so well, alone."

He had such a lovely, wonderful history with that. Luna pouted, again.

"Oh, don't worry, silly! You'll always have us! I don't think they'll want me to stick to you throughout the Task, though…."

She wrapt her arms around him in a hug, and he sighed, returning the favour. "I do wish that you could come, Luna." He remembered the First Task, all the anxiety when he'd only had to look after himself, and changed his mind. "On second thought, I'd rather know that you were safe."

He smiled down at her face, and she was kind enough to give him a consolation kiss. Luna, he decided, was very sweet. He'd have to do something about those ravenclaws who kept stealing her things.

* * *

On the other hand were the repercussions of their conversation with Hagrid. His entire life seemed to be in flux, of late. Stephen was insufferably smug about everything. He refused to listen when told that it was unfair that he should gloat about his knowledge of the future, under the insistence that their future selves were quite as insufferable, or more so. He was only returning the favour.

"But I haven't had the chance to gloat, yet," Loki had to protest. "This is not the future."

That he was distracted by life in general went without saying. If he was less skilful with words than usual, Stephen overlooked it, rather than call attention to it.

He had still yet to meet Hermione, even though she and Thor were dating, and continued to be married in the various futures Stephen came from. That time was coming.

But first, of course, it was time to have another insufferable chat with Thor about family. Apparently, this was his new pastime.

"He meant no harm," Thor had to remind him, first. "He did not know the truth."

"And nor did I—nor you, I assume, until—" He found himself unable to finish that sentence. But, there was, under all that wariness, the unfortunate acknowledgement that Thor had done his best—that he was here, now, spoke volumes. Harry'd bound himself to that conclusion years ago, back when he'd spoken to Mother, first asking her where Thor was. Hadn't he thought something to the effect that it would necessarily speak well of Thor, were he here, looking for his brother, despite having no cause to think that he'd find him here? Now, as it turned out, he _had_ cause, but—

"You are my brother," Thor insisted. "I may be as vulnerable as any to 'peer pressure', I believe they call it, but I never thought less of you. Nor did Father, or Mother."

By "think no less", he clearly didn't mean that they accepted what he'd done. And they hadn't known about the elephant in the room.

But, at the same time…they were all the family he'd ever known. As he had no memory of meeting the Marauders, back when they'd been the Marauders, that held. And the Sorting Hat had said that _love_ was his guiding force. His mind kept returning to its words.

There was truth in them, more than he might have expected. Love was his guiding force? What had pulled him back from death as a baby, doubtless, and again, in first and second year. The guidance of his mother, and the protection of his brother, were ready for him to see. But he was not Malfoy. He did not fall back on his powerful father for authority. He made his own way.

Just how was authority connected to love, anyway? When he reflected back upon the Sorting Hat's words, tried to pick them apart, that particular clause made little sense to him.

He knew what it meant. Hadn't he always before measured his own worth by him—hadn't his greatest goal been that attempt, to gain Odin's approval? And then, in turn, he'd taken up the same lessons and standards as everyone else back home. Not because of his surroundings. Because of his father. That distant authority, that seemed impossible to please. That was all that the Sorting Hat meant. That, or….

But he'd succeeded, sometimes. And after all that... here was Thor, saying that all that work had never been necessary. The Sorting Hat could interpret memories through a different lens, but it was still limited to its wearer's experience. It had sensed, even so, the influence that Odin had had on Harry, far greater than that of James Potter, or Vernon Dursley. That influence, which had cut clean through Vernon Dursley's attempted teachings in a matter of months.

He thought of kings, and princes, and palaces, and remembered the dragon (as if he could have forgot).

"I know," he said. He was tempted to ask for more time, but he knew that he'd already made his decision. It was in what he'd said to the dragon, during the First Task. "There is no need to keep a constant eye on me, lest I do some foolish thing as attempt to murder Hagrid, or whatever plot you think that I have devised. When I spoke to the dragon, I told her that my father was a king of another realm. I didn't mean Jotunheim."

He was not looking at Thor, but he could still gauge his brother's response. There was always a sense of it in the air. He didn't need to look to see his reaction. He knew what it was. He'd rather prefer to lack the details.

"You told the dragon—?" Thor began, with such evident bewilderment that Harry sought for a way to take pity on him. None were forthcoming.

"Dragons are intelligent," he said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. There was a sort of smugness smothered under Thor's confusion, but he was willing to suffer that, too. "Denial and nurturing grudges have led me to dangerous depths before. I like to think that I learn from my mistakes. Did I not ask of you that you give me the time in which to sort through these matters on my own?"

Thor fidgeted. "It seemed more prudent to ensure that you did not simply ignore the matter," he said, in what could almost be considered a diplomatic fashion. The worst part was that Harry couldn't even begrudge him that conclusion, because that was precisely what he had done.

But all was well that ended well, as the saying went, and now they were on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of this chapter is Harry/Luna, and therefore cringeworthy. The other half is character development for Harry, and thus win. I'm so ambivalent about this chapter. I kind of want to cut the romance half out, but...that's _also_ character development.  
> Oh, well.
> 
> Also, I wrote most of the last scene this year. A year after the rest. Does it show?


	20. How to Swim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically: the lead-up to, and the aftermath of, the Second Task.

"Hermione," Harry said, a few days after the article concerning Hagrid and his mother came out. He was still seething, but very quietly. Anyone with any sense who heard his voice would know that he was not to be trifled with. This included Hermione, who gulped, and set aside her essay. At least she wasn't frozen, like a deer in the headlights, this time. Perhaps she'd been promoted from "frightened rabbit".

"Wh—what is it, Harry?" she squeaked, casting about for assistance. Surprisingly, neither Neville, nor Seamus, both in the Common Room at the time, came to her rescue. "Oh, don't look that way," Harry said, with an offhand wave, sitting down several feet away from her; she nevertheless felt the need to scoot aside as if to give him a wide berth. Harry rolled his eyes. Sometimes, you just had to.

"It isn't about _you_ ," he said. "It's about Rita Skeeter. She must be stopped."

This was a declaration, the sort that generals gave to their armies at war. Hermione did not seem to take this message, instead frowning and folding her arms, in an attempt to make Harry see sense. He had no idea why she thought that would avail her _now_.

"Harry," she said, in her gentlest voice, which made him frown. She paused, and drew back, and he sighed, looking away from her, and tapping his feet. She unfroze, and continued, "Harry, we've been over this before. We can't stop Skeeter if we don't know how she's coming by her information—"

"You've been discussing this?" he asked, cocking his head. "With whom?"

Certainly not with him, or he'd have already had this conversation. Hermione would not meet his eyes, instead fiddling with the cuff of her robes.

He sighed, and let it pass. "I know how she's getting her information," he said, with a smile. "And I can think of no one better equipped to figure out what to do with her than _you_."

Alright, perhaps he'd do a better job, but he had other concerns. With the holidays past, and New Year's come and gone, the Second Task was all anyone was talking about. He needed to figure out that egg.

Hermione blinked, staring at him. "You _know_? Then….you could have done something about her—!"

"It's not that easy," he said, shrugging. "You have to find and catch her, first. She's sure to be at the Second Task. I'll lend you the Map. Just look for her name."

He considered leaving it at that, but then took pity on her. "She, like our dear friend Peter Pettigrew, is an unregistered animagus. I didn't know that they could turn into bugs, but—" He shrugged, again. "Oh, but don't tell Ron. I don't know how he'd react."

And then, before she could protest that blackmail wasn't her style or something, he stood up and left her to her study. But, perhaps she didn't mind after all, for she didn't tell Ron.

***

It was Cedric who provided an answer to the riddle of the egg—he wouldn't say how he'd come by it, but when pressed had said that he'd "had help", which suggested someone pulling strings (Harry shuddered). Telling him to take a bath in the prefects bathroom was almost excessive, or that was how it initially seemed. (of course they had their own bathroom, and it was very kind of Diggory to share the secret of how to enter, although it _was_ on the Map; Remus had been a prefect, too). Stephen probably knew all about this Task, but knew that he had to keep silent and let things run their course, which did not stop Loki from asking him. It never did to ignore the obvious routes.

He'd had to put up with Moaning Myrtle, but he'd figured out the egg with Cedric's help, which probably did nothing but nullify recent events—a tradeoff, the dragons for the egg. Luna (clever girl) was right, if for the wrong reasons. That incomprehensible screeching was actually a language, albeit one that Harry would probably never learn. Mermish, apparently.

He memorised the threatening lines of the "clue", somehow ducked out of having to promise to visit Myrtle again, and even managed to drive her off, hoping that he wasn't dripping wet and suspicious, because Filch and Mrs. Norris patrolled the corridors of Hogwarts after dark, and…hang on, _Bartemius Crouch_ , who was unfit to judge the tournament? In Snape's office? Why would he be there? Sneaking around was not a pastime generally encouraged at Hogwarts, but in this situation, it almost seemed imperative. Any time he ignored some such unusual thing, he was made to regret it.

He frowned, glancing around the Prefects bathroom as if Myrtle would have decided to just reappear, and then pulled out the invisibility cloak, again, because this situation seemed to call for it, and stole through the Hogwarts corridors, seeking for Bartemius Crouch, rummaging through Snape's personal effects…or whatever. The Marauder's Map, after all, never lied.

Of course, Snape seemed to have a sixth sense for these sort of things (or perhaps even a _seventh_ , a truly alarming thought), and their paths crossed as he headed to his office. Harry decided that, if Snape were aware of circumstances, there was no need to pursue this lead, and he was tired. He foresaw a long day filled with studying the Black Lake ecosystem, or some such. It would figure that the Second Task _would_ have to be underwater. He'd never end up using the Sword of Gryffindor for anything but practise, at this rate. He didn't know precisely what it was made of, or how it had been forged, but he was unwilling to risk it turning all rusty due to exposure to water, or something (he would regret this decision on the day of the Second Task, when he needed something with which to cut loose the hostages).

Had he ever mentioned to anyone that the Dursleys had never seen fit to teach him how to swim? He wasn't sure. That was yet another problem, on top of everything else.

Just _what_ was it that he'd sorely miss? There were far too many candidates, unfortunately, and that phrase was deliberately vague. He'd miss his sanity, of course, and it was probably within the power of wizards to take it away from him, but it would not be in their best interests any more than it was in his. Which wouldn't have stopped them, even had they known, but it probably did not fit the nature of the competition.

Even if you removed the threat of dangerous curses affecting things like your free will, your memory, your motor skills, your sanity, there were still quite a few candidates for things that Harry would sorely miss. He wondered when he'd become so sentimental. But then, what did it _matter_ what he'd sorely miss? For reasons quite different from victory and proving himself (he felt no need to prove himself to the Wizarding World, when he'd spent an entire _lifetime_ trying to prove himself to his family; compared to them, the Wizarding World as a whole could go hang), he _had_ to do his best at this task.

He scowled at the realisation that they had him well and truly boxed in. Yet another prison, huh? But he, Luna, Hermione, and Ron pooled their thoughts. Ron was most concerned with keeping Harry alive. Hermione realised sensibly that whatever he missed _that_ much would probably cripple him to lose. She did not seem to like the portent of the matter, at all. She spent most of her time trying to figure out what it could be.

"Perhaps we might focus on the matter at hand, namely, how I am to survive for an hour under the lake (almost certainly longer than an hour, as that time accounts only for finding and 'recovering what' they took), when _I don_ _'t know how to swim_?"

Swimming lessons probably took longer than a couple of months.

"I suppose I could teach you some of the basics," Hermione mused, thankfully paying attention at that moment. Perhaps she'd heard Harry's emphasis.

"I know how to survive underwater," Neville added, leaning forwards over Hermione's frantic diagrams and notes. Harry was not quite as resentful of him as he would have been had he not had Luna to commiserate with. He was, at least, willing to hear Neville out.

"You found something?" he asked, cocking his head. In retrospect, he should have recruited more than just his inner circle of friends (and Luna, whatever she was). "Do tell."

And Neville, beaming at the thought of being _useful_ for once, began to tell him, in a wealth of detail, about some plant called gillyweed. As with all of the solutions Harry had researched thus far, it had its ups and downs, but if he combined it with a few other tactics….

"I see," he said, mind turning to the thought of how he would acquire the plant in time for the Second Task. He would have to ask Professor Snape for an order form for the apothecary, or something. Except, Snape would probably prefer that he drown. McGonagall, then. "Brilliant, Neville." he tacked on, with an absent smile that nevertheless had Neville beaming. Neville was as approval-starved as Harry. And what was that about Neville's reaction to the Cruciatus, again? Yet another thing to put off for later.

When you added the bubblehead charm to gillyweed, you had a halfway decent plan…except for the fact that he still didn't know how to swim, and deciding when to use which was a bit tricky. Still, he was beginning to feel prepared.

***

" _Dobby_?" he asked, incredulous. He sort of assumed that Dobby had gone off to see the world, after he'd been freed from service to the Malfoys. To find him here, and working in the Hogwarts kitchens was…unexpected. That Winky was also there was, after that, almost a given. Apparently, Hogwarts was the gathering place for all outcasts. Still….

"Dobby is so happy to see Master Harry Potter, sir," said Dobby, as Harry stared him up and down. Freedom suited him. Despite this fact, however, he still seemed to prefer to work for a living, and he declined offers of higher pay, which frustrated Hermione to no end. Her frustration next to that of the other, less tolerant house-elves in the kitchens, who took offence to the suggestion that they should be working for a wage…or that they were slaves…or a great deal many more things that Hermione said. Said house-elves seemed so offended by Hermione's questions that they, as politely as possible, retreated further into the kitchens, and avoided Hermione, leaving her to Dobby and Winky.

Winky did not seem to be doing too well, either. Harry had to wonder if there weren't some sort of invisible, unexplored connection between house-elf and master, that still bound the two of them together, or something. Of course, Crouch had stopped coming to the Tournament only after the First Task…and it hadn't even been _announced_ when he'd sacked Winky. The two events were probably unconnected. But Winky did seem utterly miserable…and drunk. Harry had an unfortunate amount of familiarity with _that_.

However, as, most unfairly, he no longer had his excuse not to take sides in the great _Spew_ debate, Harry tried to take a survey of the opinions of the house-elves working at Hogwarts, as to whether they felt mistreated, and got the general impression that they were happy working at Hogwarts, and didn't consider themselves overworked or mistreated at all.

Hermione insisted that they were brainwashed, and Harry said, rather at the end of his tether, "Oh? And who is responsible for that? Dumbledore, do you think? I won't deny that the living conditions of house-elves in other places necessitates the establishment of their basic rights in the wizarding community as a whole, but you can't argue that they're miserable _here_ , and that they only _think_ they're not because they don't know better. They seem happy enough to me. Not everyone is cast in the same mould. If you truly want to understand, I suppose we can talk with Dobby, some, about what makes him different from his fellow workers here. "

The conclusion he reached was that Dobby was an anomaly, whose ideas of freedom and wages came of a lifetime spent in servitude to the Malfoys. In another family, he might have been better adjusted, and, like those working at Hogwarts,not have questioned his treatment, whether he didn't deserve to be treated with more consideration and kindness. But the Malfoys had kept him utterly miserable, and that for no reason, and freedom and wages were the means by which he could _escape_. It was less a matter of civil liberties, and more a means of protecting himself from suffering. Avoidance of pain as a fairly universal trait across races. It wasn't that Dobby felt overworked, or that he valued freedom and wages in themselves.

He tried to explain it to Hermione, but the idea was too alien for her, and she was forced to retreat. Ron neatly sidestepped the entire conflict by talking to the house-elves, in some sort of third space of neither master-slave, nor equal. It was very kingly, which made Harry hate him, a little. Especially since Ron didn't seem to realise that he was doing it.

Hermione left after an hour, or so, flustered and looking as if she were going to redouble her _Spew_ efforts, and maybe set up a mini school-within-a-school in the kitchens. Harry wished her joy of it, and told her firmly, and for the last time, that he wasn't joining unless she changed her objectives. He was not going to impose British human culture onto these people. He cited the examples of India and Australia, pointing out that it was rarely a good idea to go in and overturn a society's entire structure.

Hermione was not happy with him, and, were it not for the upcoming Second Task, would have refused to speak to him. But, angry though she was, she didn't want him to _die_ , any more than Ron did. Well, perhaps slightly more than Ron did, because few people were as obscenely dedicated as he.

***

Little could be said about the Second Task. Despite the hype and concerns building up to it, it was a straightforward affair. Luna was exceptionally right, spot on. It was unseen, unheard, unintelligible, unknown. The audience must have had some way of seeing what was going on, but Harry didn't know, could not for the life of him figure out, what. Wizards didn't have microcameras. Even muggles didn't have microcameras, yet. There may have been some sort of spell subtly placed on each Champion to allow people to follow their progress through the water but, judging by the chieftainess of the merfolk coming up into the air to speak with Dumbledore concerning events that occurred down below, that wasn't it, either.

And, yes, Harry had rescued Hermione as well as Ron, because they were both his best friends, and it went against all he'd been taught to leave either of them behind. It kind of seemed a villain-thing to do, which he was eschewing to the maximum extent possible. Also, as he admitted to himself, it sabotaged whomever _Hermione_ was intended to be the hostage for.

He had no idea why she'd been chosen, and neither did she, later on. But Cedric rescued Cho Chang, and Fleur, in tears, thanked Harry for rescuing her sister, who apparently was the little girl he'd brought with him, again, for reasons of sabotage.

Cedric had rescued Cho, and Harry had rescued the rest, which irked Krum. Fleur Delacour, on the other hand, was inclined to be grateful. The haunting melody with its lines of "too late, it's gone, it won't come back" had driven her to distraction. Apparently, the girl was Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, and Harry's almost-impulsive decision to rescue her completely changed Fleur's opinion of him. Sometimes, he supposed, it paid to be impulsive and rash. This was the first "international connection" he'd made, after all.

That didn't stop Hermione from scolding him, but he bore it with what passed for good grace, from him. Meaning, he essentially affected not to hear her, and waited for her to run out of steam. He knew that she hated it when he did that.

Ron, by contrast, completely and utterly approved. It was, he had to concede (silently, of course), exactly the sort of thing _Thor_ would have done—which was probably why he'd done, come to it. Was he _really_ still asking himself what Thor would do? Even though he could ask the man himself, at any time?

Almost any time. That, apparently, was the key difference. Or maybe, it meant that _he_ was spending too much time with Ron.

Unfortunately, his actions seemed to throw the entire scoring process into disarray—which, in retrospect, he should have expected, not that he would have cared. The real problem was that it meant that the lot of them had to sit around by the lakeshore in what was, essentially, the middle of winter (who comes up with these stupid ideas?), with Hermione, Fleur, and Gabrielle in particular shivering, and Ron glaring at Viktor Krum, who was attempting to talk to Hermione—who, come to think of it, looked red as a radish with wrath. He was missing something, but he left them to it, and stayed over in the corner, with Fleur and Gabrielle.

 _He_ wasn't cold (which was barely worth noting anymore), and neither was Ron, for obvious reasons (as obvious as the reason that he could see thestrals, once you knew), and Krum came from colder climes. Luna, as if this were a picnic, joined them down at the lakeshore, sensibly attired in a winter overcoat, and probably something suitably warm under her robes for her legs, which just left her feet. Harry cocked his head at her, and offered her his shoes, ratty though they were. "They're probably too big for you, too," he said, with a shrug. "Still, they're better than nothing. I shan't need them until we get back inside, anyway."

She stubbornly refused to put them on, and he sighed. "I do well enough without shoes," she said, in her dreamy voice. "Wearing those will only make me remember the cold."

As with much of what Luna said, this both did and did not make sense. He set the shoes aside, instead, deciding that he'd put them back on before they went inside, if Luna hadn't changed her mind before it was time to go.

It took several minutes conference before the huddle in the judges' corner dispersed, and scores were ready to be awarded…out of one hundred? Dumbledore's glasses twinkled in the murky sunlight as the merchieftainess and her escort returned beneath the lake. Aside from Dumbledore, who was easily amused, and perhaps Bagman, everyone seemed vexed with recent developments.

"Therefore, the scores awarded are as follows. Fleur Delacour performed a flawless bubblehead charm, but was incapacitated and gave up early on. For her skill, we award her eighty-four points."

"I deserved a zero," Fleur said heartily, with a dramatic flip of her hair. She smiled at Harry, and then at Ron. Ron didn't seem to notice. He had an arm wrapped around Hermione, and was keeping an eye on Krum, to ensure he didn't come any closer. Or something.

Speaking of—

"Viktor Krum was the last to reach the hostages, which we have docked from his score. Although he successfully faced all the challenges beneath the lake, he was well outside the time limit allotted of an hour. We have reason to believe that he would successfully have retrieved his hostage, had he had the opportunity. Docking him ten points for his extreme tardiness, he comes out at ninety points, an impressive score—this puts him well into first place."

The crowd erupted into cheers. Harry clapped politely, and Fleur respectfully, but Luna and Ron seemed a bit confused as to what all the noise was about. Or, perhaps Ron was upset with Krum for more personal reasons.

Then Dumbledore made a characteristically Dumbledore move, saying, "Ah, but we have yet to award the rest of the points. To Mr. Cedric Diggory, then. Cedric Diggory reached the hostages second, adroitly handling all obstacles lying in wait, and returning only a few minutes after the hour deadline. Although he exceeded the time limit, his performance was otherwise exemplary. Moreover, for whatever reason, he was one of only two Champions to actually rescue his hostage. We therefore award him ninety points, tieing him with Mr. Krum."

Cheers rang out from the attending Hogwarts students, drowning out what Harry was sure were boos from Malfoy's corner, as everyone cheered Cedric on. It was very end of first year.

Dumbledore sighed, which, unfortunately, was also amplified by the _sonorus_ charm, which exaggerated the gustiness of it until you would have expected the leaves in the trees to be moving, too. He might even have done it on purpose.

"Finally, to Mr. Harry Potter," he said, sounding…resigned. Harry wouldn't look at him, only now questioning the moral validity of his actions. Too late to take them back, but was Dumbledore perhaps disappointed with his choices?

"Before we award points to Mr. Potter, who, I might add, was first to reach the hostages, and showed remarkable ingenuity in his use of mixed branches of magic, although he, too, reached the hostages after the time limit had elapsed, we must ask him a question."

A sudden thought struck Harry, who glanced at the watch he'd once fixed that had belonged to Dudley. Waterlogged, not waterproof, it was now little more than a glorified bracelet. Apparently, the _impervius_ charm didn't last as long as he'd thought. Harry glanced up at Dumbledore through his bangs, and said nothing.

"Harry, the judges of the competition wish to know your reasons for rescuing Ms. Granger, before they decide your final score."

Harry raised his head to meet Dumbledore's gaze. "…Really? They're honestly asking me to tell them why I troubled myself to rescue _one of my best friends_? Let me sing you a tale, then, of a night for which I have yet to make amends, when this same Hermione Granger followed me into certain danger, even when she had lost her only protection, and…(how did you put it?) 'used cool logic in the face of fire', thus saving my life, when the time wasn't far removed that I'd valued her life less than Ron's—I suppose that's why _he_ was chosen for my hostage. Let me tell you the tale of the girl who, in second year, when even the professors were stymied, lit a torch to guide us and show our way in the trial to come. I owe her my life, and I have done a poor job of repaying it."

He had done this before—he knew the style and cadence, the way to lend extra power to his words, make them reverberate and resound in an enclosed space; that part was easy. But the words were carefully chosen, with a storyteller's persuasive force, a guiding current to change the minds of those who heard, without them recognising that their minds were being thus influenced.

It wasn't magic. It wasn't some sort of divine ability. It was knowledge, the knowledge of how to speak so that other people would listen. It put him in mind of one day in particular, one memory. He did not glance at Thor to see if he followed the same train of thought. What the need?

He bowed his head in feigned contrition, that he need not look them in the eyes as he spoke. Also, because, in such circumstances as these, it always _was_ best to seem genuinely sorry and remorseful. He was not at the Dursleys', where he might expect to be made to apologise for breathing too loud, but he was not in charge here. He had no power here.

But he would always have words. "I made a mistake, an error in judgement—but suppose I had chosen wrong. And even besides that, under the lake—its own little world—it was difficult to think that this was a school, and a competition, and Hermione and the hostages would not be harmed; they never volunteered for this Tournament—although I might remind you that, I, too, never volunteered to compete; much the good it did me!" He gave a bitter laugh. "But I do hope you will forgive me, and not disqualify me for my error.

"How was I to know? It isn't as if any of the hostages had little labels on them, saying, 'hostage: awaiting the rescue of Harry Potter'. I only know Hermione is Krum's hostage, now, through process of elimination. That little girl—Gabrielle, I gather, is Fleur's, being her younger sister. Clearly, Cho was Cedric's. Ron and Hermione are my two best friends—I'd 'sorely miss' _either_ of them, but I wasn't aware that either had any sort of connection at all to Mr. Krum."

He turned to Krum. "My apologies," he said, with a little bow to the elder student, before returning his gaze to the judges. "You should have stuck to personal possessions. Or at the very least, used some sort of waterproof labels. You can't pretend that it's beyond your ability."

With his speech finished (half-speech, half-rant), he leant back, as if indifferent, and wrapt an arm around Luna. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, at long last, to see Ron staring at him aghast, and Hermione with tears in her eyes, shaking her head.

"Ginny was right: you _are_ a noble prat," Hermione sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. He rather thought she'd completely misunderstood him.

The judges conferred again, and then turned back to face the crowd. At least they didn't have to take as long, this time. "You are not disqualified, Harry. Relax," came the calm voice of the headmaster.

He stared down at the ground, and said nothing. It _was_ a genuine relief, not to be disqualified. That would have probably meant that he was considered as forfeiting, being unable to continue to compete, which would doubtless hold the same punishment as just refusing to compete. "Binding magical contact", and all that nonsense. He should have stopped to consider that before carrying out his plan, but, well, _hindsight_.

"To Mr. Harry Potter, we award sixty points," said Dumbledore, his voice ponderously slow. Was he…disappointed? Harry's eyes narrowed. Was it that he, Harry, was Dumbledore's pet project, or did he have designs that relied upon Harry's success in the tournament?'

Harry discovered that he had supporters, even amongst the other houses, when they _boo_ ed this rating, protesting that he'd done the magic flawlessly, and he was the first to reach the mark—what gave? It was even more surprising to find that amongst them were _all three_ of the other champions. He blinked, startled, at Krum's rather coarse, raspy voice protesting that Harry had meant well, and why were they punishing him when he'd met with the most success?

"I owe you again, Harry," Cedric said, under the clamour, as he turned to face him, holding out a hand to shake. "It isn't right that they're punishing you for doing well. What are they thinking? And I think I owe you double. Is it just me, or are you pulling all the weight for Hogwarts?"

Harry shook his hand, but Fleur was immediately standing, rising to her feet with a casual fluid grace. "What are you thinking? I did not complete the task, but I received a higher score than Harry, who did better than any of us?"

"Harry's actions influenced the scores of the other contestants, making their performance more difficult to judge. Karkaroff has argued that his actions constitute sabotage, and that he should be disqualified. This was our final compromise," Percy explained, in his default voice: pompous jerk. Maybe he was secretly a Stark, or something.

" _Ooh_ ," said Fleur, fairly shuddering with rage. She jutted her chin in the air, and turned her back on the judges.

It was a very strange sensation, to have a Hogwarts turning back to face him before close of year, and his own (inevitable) death.

"That concludes the Second Task. The contestants will be taken aside to be instructed on the Final Task at the end of April. Thank you all for your support of the Champions, and your participation in the event," said Dumbledore, and then he canceled the Sonorus Charm, turning back to face the judges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are always chapters that fight me, kicking and screaming, stopping only to swear at me and make rude hand gestures. This is the first of these. There's more in later books. Let's just hope I edited this enough that it's internally consistent with the rest of the book.  
> (Also, it's entirely possible that Harry died offscreen, and just knew better than to mention it to Ron.)


	21. The Return of Mr. Crouch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally goes to speak with the Sorting Hat. Also, he has a conversation with Krum about Hermione, when Bartemius Crouch appears, wanting to speak to Dumbledore.

He didn't realise that he'd neglected to give Hermione the Map with which to catch Skeeter, owing to her absence at the arranged time (amongst other reasons) only when Skeeter's latest article appeared in the paper. Grinning and bearing it constituted taking the high road, which was not Harry's forte at the best of times. Skeeter insulting Luna did not constitute "the best of times". Whatever had happened to her pet project concerning Tom Riddle? Did she need a friendly reminder? Was it all a lost cause?

Hermione did not seem to have a good notion of how she ought to react to his behaviour during the Second Task—that he had saved her, and Ron had helped drag her to shore, a silent show of teamwork that had Ron beaming for days afterwards, and Harry questioning the wisdom of the actions he'd elected to take.

Rita Skeeter was convinced that there was a top secret love triangle amongst Ron, Hermione, and Krum (that was, that Hermione was two-timing Ron with Krum). This libel had Hermione incensed enough to renew her quest, one of many such ongoing, to Make Skeeter Pay.

He hoped that she didn't start handing out anti-Skeeter badges. He was confused enough with just the _Support Cedric Diggory: the real Hogwarts Champion_ badges, and the S.P.E.W. ones.

He thought that, from what Mrs. Weasley had said of her, that Skeeter might even be going easy on him. She _had_ mistaken Luna Lovegood for his girlfriend, but he supposed that that was an easy enough _mistake_ to make. The love triangle thing involving Hermione-the-adulteress, however, was deliberate misinterpretation. He didn't even know whence it had come. Perhaps he should speak with Krum?

Ron didn't like Krum, for some reason, and strongly disapproved of Harry coming anywhere near the boy, which made things even more complicated. Harry had no idea where such sentiment came from: Ron had seemed to have a certain amount of admiration for Krum at the Quidditch World Cup. The only thing he could think of was that Krum had said something to Hermione and Ron after the Second Task. But Hermione had suddenly become shy, and Ron refused to discuss the matter.

Luna had no idea what Krum had said or done, although Harry had asked her. She just blinked at him, with her wide, wide, eyes, and said that it was Ron and Hermione's problem, and that he shouldn't interfere.

He hadn't meant to be the interfering busybody. Indeed, he hadn't even realised that that had been what he had been doing. It was, however, an incontrovertible fact, that Ron could look after himself.

He and Luna spent some time considering what the Third Task was liable to be—from one extreme, to the other extreme, and the Third Task would be somewhere between. Fire for one, water for two, which left earth as the most probable of the remaining classical elements. Seen, heard, unknown, to unseen, unheard, known, to…what, exactly, lay between? Half a warning as to what was to come, with the audience able to sort of see and hear what was going on?

But hey, maybe he would finally get to use the Sword of Gryffindor outside of practice fighting against Thor. Not that that wasn't challenge enough—Thor had taken an exceptionally short time to adjust and start winning every match. Victory was nice while it lasted, but he'd never expected it to last long. And between his continued magic duels against Thor (Harry could be counted upon to win these, as Thor'd once said), and his study with Mother, and his experimentation with Stephen, his magic reserves were deeper than they'd been in a long time. It was, doubtless, time to complicate matters, use more complex spells. He didn't care to draw on the subtle magic of the Room of Requirement, but the knowledge of how to tap into an uncorrupted source was there for him to use, if ever the situation called for it.

He went easy on his studies, this year, mind focused mainly on how to survive the Third Task. What time he didn't spend on that, or with Luna, was spent planning for the coming wars, or, very rarely, compiling his research for a cure to Sirius's malady that he would understand. He'd missed two Hogsmeade visits this school year, which was a pity, but necessary. He needed to be ready.

After Skeeter's article came out, Harry decided that he might as well ask Luna to be his girlfriend. Neither of them were exactly normal according to the standard definitions, anyway, so she probably wouldn't think that this came out of the blue. She might even have followed his train of thought. She treated his proposal with greater flippant apathy than he had expected from a girl. He saw her point of view, he thought; it was more of a formality than anything else. Why should she care one way or the other?

Moody seemed to be laying low, Snape and Karkaroff were still panicking about something-or-other becoming more pronounced, Fleur and Viktor Krum continued to be friendly (or, in Krum's case, friendly to Harry, at least), and Neville took umbrage to people making fun of the mentally ill. That was very progressive of him. He was ahead of his time.

Speaking of "ahead of time", Stephen was being very close about his knowledge of the future, and Professor Trelawney, by contrast, was convinced that he was a seer, hiding knowledge of the future _from her_. All because he passed out (from sleep deprivation, maybe?) in the middle of class, and had a not-dream concerning Riddle and Wormtail. And that was about all that he remembered about it after fifteen minutes. But Sirius had told him to contact Dumbledore if his scar twinged again with Riddle far-distant, and thus, to Dumbledore's office he went.

Whithersoever Dumbledore had gone, he'd left in a hurry, not quite shutting the door to his cabinet after him, so that the glow of the pensieve's thought-substance caught the light and shone, drawing the attention of any visitors.

It was almost as if he _wanted_ Harry to go snoop.

Nah. Harry studiously ignored the pensieve, saying his customary hellos to Fawkes, and then turning, with heavy heart, to the Sorting Hat. He wouldn't like the ensuing conversation, he was sure. Perhaps he could put it off forever, perhaps not.

He had forgotten that Mother had suggested the Sorting Hat as a means to teach himself occlumency. He'd, indeed, quite forgotten it was one of the many things he was frantically studying in preparation for the coming wars. But the Sorting Hat was good at stirring back up the turbulent waters of his memory. This time was no different.

 _Back again, eh, Your Grace?_ asked the Sorting Hat, as if they'd parted ways only yesterday. It had been over a year, but you'd never know it.

Were he not wearing the Hat, he would have buried his head in his hands. Amazing, how self-conscious a talking hat could make you feel.

 _I daresay my mind makes more sense to you than me,_ he began. _Perhaps you could help me solve any of a number of current dilemmas I am trying to find the answers to. But I suppose, first and foremost, I am doing this by way of_ _being_ _an apology to you._

 _I don't hear you apologising,_ the Sorting Hat commented. Harry folded his arms, and noticed that he could see, sort of—the inside of the Hat no longer covered his eyes. The power of legilimency—the ability of mind to override all awareness of "present"—was the reason that he hadn't realised earlier. Interesting. In that way, it was almost like the Imperius—

He flinched.

_Ah. Yes, I see. I quite agree with your assessment of Moody, I must say. Alas, even were you to convince Dumbledore to have a conversation with me, I would not be able to share what knowledge I have gleaned from your mind. You live in troubled times, Your Grace. You should pay greater heed to the prophecy._

He paused, sitting up straighter unconsciously. _What more have_ _ **you**_ _figured out, Hat?_

The Hat gave its engine-won't-turn-over impression, and he scowled. He was very aware of the desk around him, the quiet whirring of Dumbledore's myriad contraptions, and the snoring portraits of a hundred previous headmasters (and headmistresses). He did not want to tune it out, but neither could he let it fill his thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

 _I shall speak of it to Thor,_ _but what do_ _ **you**_ _believe 'The Power He Knows Not' to be?_ he asked, after a minute. It was an important question to ask, and he knew that the Sorting Hat was aware of the thoughts that underlay this one, bubbling up to the surface, but not popping. Did he want them to pop? What did he _want_ the "power the dark lord knows not" to be? What did he want to _be_?

_What do you believe it to be, in truth, my lord? For whatever you decide informs the road you shall take, and that road, in turn, will lead to the fulfilment of the prophecy. Thoughts shape actions, after all. The 'power the Dark Lord knows not' is a vague phrase…malleable. It is any power that you possess that he does not know about._

_Dumbledore would say it is love. But, Riddle has heard of love. He knows it._

The Sorting Hat didn't argue. Harry had to press on,

_Does that not suggest that it is…something else?_

_He doesn't know about your mother, either_ , the Sorting Hat reminded him. _Your lack of denial is good progress, but don't be so swift in casting everything in the same light, you know._

Mother. It was painful to think of her, to know that her death lay in both the future, and the past. Harder to think of her, now, than it had been when last he and the Sorting Hat had spoken. Would he lose her, when he reached the age of majority, and moved out of the Dursleys'? Or did he not need that connection; did he suffer them for naught?

He duly redirected his thoughts to all that he'd learnt of Sirius's health, the possible repercussions of his stint in Azkaban.

 _You must practice occlumency_ , the Hat said, suddenly. There had been a lull in the conversation, but now it spoke again. _It will not ward off the Imperius Curse, but it will help to protect you from outside influences. Your recent dream shows your susceptibility to them. Dumbledore must be informed of what you have seen, but do not consider this glimpse into Riddle's mind a gift. It is not. It is a warning. Take it as such._

And now, he was being lectured by a Hat. He frowned, and scowled, looking down at Dumbledore's desk, covered by those spindly silver instruments. He glared at them, as if to make them burst into flame. Unfortunately, his peripheral vision was completely blocked, meaning that the desk was the only thing he _could_ stare at.

 _Very well, then,_ he said, and began to bend his will and focus to pushing the Hat out of his mind, keeping his thoughts secure from it. At the same time, he tried to settle his mind and his emotions, knowing that that was the key to using _real_ occlumency, rather than the kind that was heavily supplemented by the _other_ kind of magic.

He gave the Hat no warning; none was needed, and a sort of pitched combat ensued, fought within the confines of his own mind. It might have gone on for hours, but then the Sorting Hat was lifted off his head. The Sorting Hat _had_ been trying all sorts of tricks to break his concentration, and therefore, he'd dismissed its attempts to warn him that someone had entered the Headmaster's Office.

His inability to both notice them for himself whilst maintaining his defences against the Hat did not strike him as an auspicious sign.

"I was practicing occlumency," Harry pouted, folding his arms again. "It seems imperative, with Voldemort about to return."

"I assume, however, that that was not your purpose in coming to my office," Dumbledore said, in a mild tone laced with generous dollops of amusement. Harry didn't need to look to know that the old man was twinkling like mad.

"No," Harry conceded.

 _Next week_ , he vowed to himself. He'd just have to add one more thing to practise to his already busy schedule. In the meantime, he needed to do what he'd come here for. He sighed, and began to lead into to describing his dream to Professor Dumbledore….

* * *

"I would like to talk to you somewhere, in private," Krum said, as Harry stayed still for a second too long, digesting the news. Yes, he supposed a maze _did_ fit the criteria of being between visible and invisible, between known and unknown, and as earth, it was well-confined to a single classical element. Luna had called it again. And hey! the Sword of Gryffindor was liable to finally see actual use.

He had a little over a month to prepare, because the Third Task was set just at the end of term, when he'd ordinarily be concerned with cumulatives. He and Cedric were exempt from end-of-year exams, however. In Cedric's case, said exams were N.E.W.T.s, which sort of raised the question of when he'd be taking those. What with how integral they were in finding a job, and all.

He was wondering how Cedric would arrange to take these exams—or whether he was, perhaps, also exempt from those; being a Champion at such a famed tournament might count for whatever N.E.W.T.s tested, anyway—when Krum spoke. Fleur disappeared with a smile and a wave. Cedric lingered, with a nod, and walked off on his own. Bagman had already disappeared. It wasn't apparation—it was whatever tricky slinking usually got him out of scuffles with goblins. You turned your back on him, and he slunk off. Harry could do the same thing, of course, but he generally didn't, especially not without good cause. The more aces you had up your sleeves, the better. That was another of the reasons he'd prevailed upon his Mother not to use the armour.

Krum led him off a discreet distance, and then turned to Harry again, looking rather awkward and unsure of himself, for an internationally famous quidditch player.

"Your friend, Hermione, is a very interesting girl," he began. "What is between you and Hermione?"

He noted that Krum completely butchered Hermione's name, which was not sufficient grounds for the sheer ire that radiated from Hermione and Ron concerning Krum. However, the truth might now be uncovered.

"She's my best friend. Like a younger sister. Except that she's dating my older brother, Ron Weasley."

Krum, understandably, was even more confused by Harry's attempts to cut through the Twenty Questions game that Harry could sense starting.

So, Harry had to explain, in simplified, purely muggle terms, the connections amongst the trio.

"Then you believe that she would never be interested in being in a romantic relationship with anyone else? Your friend Ron must be a truly impressive person."

"Words don't do him justice. I'm sure he'd have been chosen, fourteen or no, if he'd had a chance to enter his name in the Goblet. In fact, there are few people who can compete with him for sheer heroic valour. Gryffindor through and through, you know."

"Your friend, Hermione, is a very interesting girl," Krum said, returning the conversation back to its original focus with a Ronnish determination. "Perhaps she would be interested in talking about schools. We could be friends, I believe. That is the point of this Tournament—"

"As long as you don't hit on her, and explain your intentions to Ron and Hermione, _and_ you mean that, I'm sure you'll be fine. I'll back you up, even. It's taken _forever_ for them to admit that they like each other, after all, and they're probably protective of their relationship in that new-couples way. As long as you don't try to come between them, I'm sure they'll give you a chance. Talk to Ron about quidditch, and Hermione about Durmstrang," he suggested.

Krum wasn't listening, which, at first, was galling. Harry was making an honest attempt to build some bridges, here. Then, he saw where Krum was looking, and what—or rather _whom_ —he was looking at.

"Is that…Mr. Crouch?" Harry asked, striding over in that direction, with Krum trailing behind.

"Dumbledore…must tell Dumbledore—you, you're a student at Hogwarts, yes?"

Crouch didn't even recognise Harry. Was this part of the malady that had kept him at home, away from the Tournament he'd helped to reinstate?

"I am. Krum isn't," Harry said, inclining his head towards Krum to include him, without taking his eyes off Crouch. He wasn't sure he trusted anyone who kept sneaking into school, despite, ostensibly, being too…indisposed, to judge the Tournament.

He did look rather…strange. Not bedridden or physically ill in any way, but his usually pristine clothes were torn, and his hair was full of snags and brambles, his eyes wild.

Then, he started talking to a nearby tree, calling it "Weatherby"—his name for Percy—to which Krum raised his eyebrows, asking the silent question of _Why are we listening to this madman_?

But….

A chill of foreboding settled in Harry's chest. Perhaps Crouch was merely mad, but as they made to leave, he seemed to come to himself. Desperation brightened his eyes, as he clutched at the two of them.

"No—get Dumbledore. I have to tell him—have to warn him. It's my fault. My son, my fault. I should have—I shouldn't have…now Harry Potter is in danger…all my fault. Get Dumbledore, he needs to know."

And there was that, too. A mind divided in half—one controlled, composed, confident, calling for Percy to fulfil his daily tasks, or whatever. The other wild, unkempt, but focused, certain, desperate.

One in its element, one out of it. There were many things it could be: madness, as he'd been told; overwork from the recent stress of the Tournament, and losing Winky; but also, and he knew this because of his research, _the Imperius Curse_. One of the few warning signs that a victim was fighting the curse was this odd duality to their behaviour.

He couldn't take the risk. He turned to Krum, turned back to Crouch. If he were under the Imperius, they couldn't possibly leave him alone. They'd have to do as he said—they'd have to bring him to Dumbledore. He seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings, as if he recognised that Harry were British, but nothing else, and Krum…he didn't even recognise _Krum_.

And, wait a minute, _what_ was this about a son?

Now, Harry didn't like Crouch on the best of days—he'd been the one to send Sirius to Azkaban without even the dignity of a trial, but alarm bells were ringing. A warning, _Harry Potter is in danger_ , Crouch, whose pride Sirius had inveighed against, begging for help, admitting he'd made a mistake, asking to see Dumbledore. That dream, only a couple of weeks past.

They had to get him to Dumbledore, one way or another. He didn't dare to leave Crouch alone, and he didn't dare to leave Krum alone, not if there were any chance that Crouch would attack him. If only one of the others had _stayed_.

Again, time seemed to slow to a crawl, to give him time to think, as it had at the end of second year, when he'd needed to plan how to handle Lockhart. He thought fast.

"I think we need to put off this conversation for a later date, Viktor. This is just a guess, but Mr. Crouch might be under the Imperius Curse—in which case he is a threat to himself and others. I'm not about to leave you alone with him, so let's bind him and take him to Dumbledore. I'll lead the way. If he tries anything, shout."

He pointed his wand at Crouch, just in case, and muttered, " _Incarcerous_."

"Headmaster Karkaroff is closer," Krum began. Harry shook his head

"He asked specifically for Dumbledore. There must be a reason. Also, I don't think I like your headmaster much. He was rather dismissive of me when we first met."

Dread settled in deep, when they stumbled across Moody in the halls leading to Dumbledore's office. He caught sight of Crouch and, understandably, his one good eye widened. Then, he made what seemed to be an attempt to head them off.

"No unauthorised individuals allowed on Hogwarts grounds, Potter. Basic safety precautions, you know."'

"We're just taking him to see Dumbledore," Harry retorted, resisting the urge to fold his arms—he needed freedom of movement, the ability to act at a moment's notice. "And he can't be 'unauthorised', when he's one of the judges of the Triwizard Tournament. Bagman's only recently gone. Let us through."

"He may be dangerous," Krum began, but Harry glared at him, and he was smart enough to realise that, for some reason, Harry wanted him to keep quiet.

"Let me take him to Dumbledore, then," Moody offered, and Harry had to force himself not to narrow his eyes in suspicion. All those little tells.

"Begging your pardon, professor, sir, but every time I try to leave him, he gets worse. I think we need to escort him to Dumbledore personally. If you think it will help, you can join us."

Moody visibly considered the offer, his expression, to the extent that Harry could read it, carefully blank. His gaze traveled over the trio, and Harry forced himself to relax.

"Go on, then, Potter, Krum. I'll alert the other professors to the situation, in case he tries anything."

He stumped away. Harry stared after him. He cocked his head, considering, and then turned back to Krum.

They were only halfway to Dumbledore's office when the green light hit Crouch, who fell down, dead.

Neither he nor Krum could pinpoint the origin of that light, and Harry wished that he had had his seventh sense open. But it was too late for that, now. All that he could do was think of what Crouch had said, and repeat it to Dumbledore as faithfully as he could.


	22. Lead-Up to the Main Event

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Sirius discuss Crouch's murder. Harry has a confrontation with Malfoy, and Sirius and Remus among others show up before the Third Task to send Harry off.

"What you should have done," Sirius corrected him, "is brought the bloody _mirror_ with you."

"And how would _that_ have helped, precisely?" Harry asked, in his pleasantest voice, which Sirius seemed to find less intimidating than did most of his other friends.

"I could have alerted Dumbledore!" Sirius said, arms crossed, as he stared Harry down.

"And he would still have come too late to speak with Mr. Crouch. Unless you have the ability to detect and block the Killing Curse, there is nothing you could have done. I _possess_ the ability, but using my seventh sense to any useful capacity tends to stifle my other senses. There is only so much data the human brain can process, after all."

"There was nothing you could have done, kiddo," Sirius said, with a completely different tone. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It's only…all this news…tell me what he said again?"

Harry turned to Ron. "Nothing much. He mentioned his son, said that I was in danger, but didn't seem to recognise that _I_ was the Harry Potter he wanted to warn Dumbledore was in danger, and said something about…something being his fault. He was not terribly coherent."

"Perhaps he's just gone mad—" Sirius said, but it was clear that he didn't believe it, himself. His voice warbled. No one had to say: but then, why murder him?

"We've lost our chance to learn more from that source," said Harry, frustrated enough by this turn of events to slam his fist into an end table. He was not generally disposed towards acts of violence—that was Ron's thing, but he had his moments, and now was one of them.

"But we _have_ learnt something important," said Hermione, very quietly, as if she didn't dare to speak louder, which was entirely possible. "We learnt that there _is_ a servant of—of You-Know-Who, working at Hogwarts."

"We already knew that," said Harry, trying to keep his voice in the _mildly_ scathing levels, rather than abrasive-as-ropeburn. "Someone entered me into the Triwizard Tournament, after all. As Moody put it, 'Someone clever enough to fool a powerful magical object like the Goblet, to make it forget that there are only three schools, and not four', which doesn't sound as if he's bragging _at all_."

"You still think it's Moody, then?" asked Sirius, casting a shrewd glance in Harry's direction.

"And the Sorting Hat agrees with me," Harry said, running a hand through his own hair, tilting his head to the side and leaning against the arm of the sofa.

"When have you spoken to the Sorting Hat?" asked Hermione, and then she stretched, and yawned. "Sorry," she added, as if it were something to be ashamed of, that she was tired after he'd woken her at nine-thirty at night, and then dragged her to the Room of Requirement for a council of war. She was too tired even to properly appreciate the Room, which was saying something.

"Don't apologise, Hermione. I ought to apologise for waking you in the middle of the night. This could have waited." Harry glanced down at the ground, away from Hermione, but he raised his gaze almost immediately to the mirror, which had been made to stand upright on the temporary coffee table.

"Waiting would be a poor choice, given recent events," Ron corrected him, full of wariness, but not dour or grim, as he had been the last few years. There wasn't the tense expectation that Harry would die at any moment, although there perhaps should have been.

"Why would someone with such a clear shot kill Crouch, and not Harry?" asked Sirius. "He's the most obvious target."

The air grew thick as soup at Sirius's pronouncement. It was true, and suspicious.

"They need me alive, for some reason. Sirius, what have you discovered in your research? All I have is a Foe-Glass that shows three figures—two of whom I'm almost certain are Riddle and Wormtail—and a third man, with distinct features even though I've never seen him in my life. Now, _that_ is a mystery. I can't help thinking that he must be the one to have slain Mr. Crouch, who, for all his innumerable faults, nevertheless was never a servant of Riddle's. He must have been in the way, somehow."

"Describe him," Sirius said. "I'll see if I recognise him. I haven't encountered any earth-shattering secrets concerning the Tournament. You already know what the Third Task is. Let me tell you that, given past tournaments, this last one will be the sort that tries your intelligence and wisdom, and not just your physical abilities. You'll have to deal with a broad array of spells and creatures. But that's about as far as the previous tournaments add up. That, and all of them had a Yule Ball. As if that's any use. And most of the spells in the Black Library are full of dark magic—that's no good as far as practise—not that you need more to practise, eh? It seems between your friends and your natural gift for magic, you're all set on that front."

"Harry, have you been practising magic spells _without me_?" asked Hermione. Harry blinked, at her level of indignation.

"Ah. Yes. Come to think of it, I intended to ask if you wished to join us, but as it was, Ron needed instruction anyway, and I thought that I might be able to assist him with the underlying theory behind the magic, and refresh my own memory at the same time. You may join us, if you wish."

"Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't want to impose," said Hermione, voice dripping with sarcasm. Perhaps she was spending too much time around _him_. That was rather more alarming of a thought than the thought of her marrying Ron, someday. Most people hated their in-laws, but Harry thought that he would be very lucky if he ended up with the Weasleys plus Hermione. Stephen seemed to hint that the future lay in that direction.

"Well, Harry?" asked Sirius, leaning back in his chair, away from his mirror. He seemed very focused, despite that.

Harry shrugged, thinking back, remembering as many details as he'd gleaned from the Foe-Glass. Straw blond hair, bright blue eyes, sort of stocky but gaunt—that odd juxtaposition that made him think of Pettigrew.

Sirius looked thoughtful. "I wonder…" he began. "Could it be Barty Crouch—the late _Mr._ Crouch's son? I remember seeing him just the once, as they were dragging him past my cell…but no—" he shook his head firmly. "Now I remember…he died shortly after he arrived in Azkaban. Forget it."

Harry glared at the pretty, red and gold carpeted floor. "He would not be the first dead man to return to life to kill me," he said, and Sirius paused, and then, folding his arms, nodded.

"But suppose he _is_ alive…where has he been hiding?"

Harry shrugged, thinking of the times that he'd seen that name "Bartemius Crouch" on the Map. Perhaps it _hadn't_ been Crouch Senior sneaking into the school.

Where was he the rest of the time? Because he was neither student nor professor, the Map would have little reason to track him, unless he were close to Harry's location. There were so many people at Hogwarts at any given time that to show every ink figure for every inhabitant of the school would crowd the Map to overflowing. It relied primarily upon local data—whoever was in the vicinity—with only the figures of McGonagall, Peeves, Filch, Mrs. Norris, Dumbledore, and Snape permanently marked. It kept up surprisingly well, but even it had its limits. This was one of them.

"You have an idea?" asked Sirius, narrowing his eyes.

"He _has_ appeared, perhaps on the Map. I had previously assumed that Mr. Crouch was sneaking back into Hogwarts—perhaps he was—or perhaps…."

There was no way to prove this one way or the other.

All pulling out the Map in order to examine it told them was that the Map didn't recognise those who were located within the Room of Requirement.

* * *

"I guess since the Third Task is in a few weeks, you won't be around much longer," Malfoy began, in an attempt at gloating.

"I survived the first two," Harry interrupted with a shrug. "I don't see why this one should be any different."

"Oh, the last one is the hardest," Malfoy said, in his usual offhand manner, and Harry pretended that Sirius and Remus hadn't agreed upon that fact, not to mention that it was blatantly obvious. Still, "harder" did not necessarily mean "deadlier".

"So, what are you and your girlfriend doing by this statue of the one-eyed witch?"

Harry blinked, nonplussed for the moment, mind mostly fixated upon the knowledge that Malfoy must not know about the secret path to Hogsmeade. Then, his mind caught up to what Malfoy was saying.

"Luna isn't here," he said, cocking his head in feigned curiosity. "And I hope you aren't insinuating that _you_ are my girlfriend," he added. "I'm not interested in men, anyway. If you broke up with Pansy, it's probably because she couldn't stand the thought of dating a man who spent more time on his hair than she did hers. I'm sorry to hear about the breakup, but I'm sure you'll find someone else…eventually…well, no, probably not, but I'm not interested, either. And I refuse to do pity dates. You're out of luck."

"Pansy and I have _not_ broken up, and my family is _not_ —" Malfoy said, inadvertently confirming the rumours that they'd been dating at all. Harry wondered if Skeeter were watching, but mostly, he was blowing off steam, and Malfoy was the most convenient target for his wrath. What with how he was a future Death Eater, and had no soul, and all.

"Ah, relationship trouble, then," Harry said, nodding in fake understanding. Ron relaxed at the realisation that Harry was, obviously, safe.

Malfoy's face was beginning to grow very red, and his facial muscles were tightening. It was the next best thing to squashing Malfoy's face for real. Ron seemed to agree, standing there with his arms folded, glaring at Malfoy.

"I am _not_ interested in dating you, Potter," Malfoy said at last, with a heated glare. Crabbe and Goyle gave synchronised sycophantic nods behind him, which Malfoy neither saw nor noticed. "I was _talking_ about _Weasley_."

Harry frowned, and cocked his head to the other side. "But that makes no sense. Ron looks nothing like Luna—unlike you, he isn't even blond." He glanced aside to Ron at this remark. Only Ron could be expected to hear the injoke embedded in Harry's refutation. He grinned, and Ron relaxed, just slightly, shaking his head in wonderment at how Harry had tangled the conversation up for such a trivial reason.

Malfoy's glare intensified, until it could bore holes through the limestone of which Hogwarts was built.

"Anyway, this is Ron, and not Luna. I'm not sure how you confused them—perhaps you need glasses: they don't look very similar at all. You would think that you would recognise him, at least—he is an official Weasley, after all. Perhaps you need to refresh your memory of your friends and enemies. It wouldn't do for you to confuse the two."

"Besides, Ron is practically my older brother—I'm an unofficial Weasley adoptee, you know, and I wouldn't feel comfortable dating my older brother even if both of us _were_ attracted to men. Or, either of us. Dating a sibling is nasty.

"Oh!" he said, eyes widening in exaggerated realisation. "I'm sorry, I forgot that's how things are usually done in non- _blood traitor_ , noble-type pureblood families like the Malfoys—"

Malfoy twitched, and then drew his wand, and Harry drew and aimed at Malfoy. "I wonder how many wands your father will be willing to buy for you," he said, pretending to consider the question.

Malfoy took the unspoken message, and hesitated. "Or, you could leave. Now," Harry said, with his pleasantest smile. Malfoy glanced down at the wand in his hand—his…what, fifth?—and then back at Harry.

"Anyway, guys aren't my type. Sorry, Malfoy. Better luck next time. Maybe you should try Crabbe or Goyle. They seem willing to do anything you want." Harry's stance was casual, as if Malfoy posed no threat—which was more or less accurate.

" _Furnunculus_!" Malfoy cried, at his wit's end, but Harry dodged, and swiftly closed the distance between the two of them, grabbed Malfoy's latest weapon, wrenching it from his hands. Crabbe and Goyle would have entered the fray, but Ron stood between them and Malfoy, and they must have been smarter than they looked (which, in retrospect, was obvious: they'd never have passed first year, otherwise).

With no ready means of continuing his assault, Malfoy took a step back, glancing around the hall, and retreated.

"My father will hear about this!" he called out, as per the usual, as he marched stiffly away. Harry shrugged, glancing after him, and then turned on his heel, and casually sauntered away in the opposite direction.

None were the wiser of the secret passage, so it was worth Hermione's impending lecture. Perhaps, one of these days, Malfoy would learn to stop picking fights with them. Those never ended well for him.

* * *

Predictably, the figures of his Foe-Glass were clear as day the morning preceding the Third Task. He knew he'd never seen the blond man before, and yet his image in the Glass was distinct, identifiable, _specific_. He studied it, the better to recognise the next time he saw it (perhaps they'd crossed paths one day in Diagon Alley, or _Knockturn_ Alley, and he didn't recall?). He glanced at Wormtail, standing there with mist covering his torso, fading out to nothingness, in a manner reminiscent of Hogwarts's ghosts below that. He barely even glanced at the third figure, whom he'd expected all along—the man with the short, neat black hair and red eyes. The time of their confrontation was at hand.

It was, after all, June Fourth. But he'd made arrangements, just in case. He'd known well in advance the date of each of the Tasks, but he'd also known, without Sirius _needing_ to remind him, that this task was Riddle's last best chance to get to him. And, in retrospect, it made the most sense to wait for the Final Task, when tensions were running high, but everyone had been lulled into a false sense of security (nothing had happened the previous two; it was safe).

Everyone, that was, except for Harry's inner circle: he, Ron, Hermione, Sirius, and Remus, were all on high alert. And, they had backup, arriving later.

He _was_ genuinely surprised when, after dinner, he and the Champions were all taken aside to spend some time with their families before the Final Task (this must be a holdover from days of _fatal_ tasks). He'd dragged Ron into the mix, as well ("he _is_ family, you know," he told any who protested), which was just as well, considering who was waiting for him in the tent set up by the quidditch pitch. Sure, there were Sirius, and Remus, and Tonks, who anymore seemed almost surgically attached to Remus, but there were also the Weasleys—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill, and Charlie, even, although they barely knew Harry. Mrs. Weasley tried her best to smother him in a hug, until Mr. Weasley gently peeled her off. Ron stared, clearly at a loss. Harry laughed.

"Hey, kiddo. Thought we'd surprise you before the big event," Sirius said, with a smirk. "Did it work?"

"I have never known Hogwarts to be so hospitable to visitors," said Harry, in return, smiling despite the hidden dig in Sirius's words. "I _am_ surprised. It is good to see all three of you, face to face, again."

Sirius slung an arm around his shoulder, and nodded at Ron. Harry knew better than to relax, despite how many people he now knew to be looking out for him. He glanced over Remus, and Sirius, and Tonks, and met Ron's gaze. It was as if a hidden message had been sent amongst those in the know.

He spent an hour with his quasi-family before Ginny, Fred, George, and Hermione joined them. In that time, he got to wander around the temporary campsite (trying not to think of the Quidditch World Cup), meeting Krum's parents, and being introduced to Fleur's parents, and saying hello to Gabrielle.

" _Hello, Mr. Potter_ ," said Gabrielle, in a quiet rush of French. " _Thank you for saving me. Fleur speaks highly of you. She told_ _me_ _that I should practice my English_ _by_ _talking to you._ "

Despite these words, that was all that she said.

"I must apologise for Gabrielle," said Fleur. "She can be a bit shy, and you are a celebrity. I think I shall get a job here in England, to improve my English. English-speakers are always in demand, and you have a lovely country."

Cedric wanted Harry to talk to his parents, as well. He insisted that he'd done his best to make his Dad contain himself, but he needed to check. Whilst still being very proud of his only son, Mr. Diggory was friendly enough to Harry, which was just as well, as, with the Tournament's final task, and an impending confrontation with Riddle, swift approaching, he was all nerves and reflexes. Amos Diggory, at least, did not bring up the Quidditch Match of Doom once. He seemed quite friendly, if a bit exuberant. Mrs. Diggory hung on his arm, rolling her eyes at her husband's antics, and ruffling Cedric's hair.

But mostly, Harry spent time in the tent assigned to him and his, either subtly conferring with Sirius and Remus (and Ron), or hanging out with Ron and Hermione. He wished that this sort of thing could happen more often without threat of his imminent (and inevitable) demise hanging over them—although he could have done without Mrs. Weasley's rebuffing Hermione for cheating on Ron. And this was the woman who had first put Harry on guard against Skeeter. Didn't she _know_ better than to believe whatever that woman wrote?

Harry quietly handed over the Map, which he was sure only Sirius and Remus noticed him do. He ignored their incredulous stares with a smile. They either trusted his judgement, or they didn't. They sensibly took his implication, and asked no questions. That was good.

Because time flies when you have something you dread coming, _and_ while you're having fun, Harry found that, in what felt a manner of minutes, he was being called up to the starting point of the maze, along with the other Champions. The ones who'd actually signed up for this.

He shook his head, and _focused_. Adrenaline was a force that seemed to slow the world down, to allow him to think through important moves before he made them, as at the end of second year, when he'd had to confront Lockhart and then Riddle. It filled him with icy calm, as he asked Mother to restrain herself one last time.

 _Wait for the confrontation with Riddle, which is sure to come,_ he asked of her. He would conserve as much of his strength as he could spare for that confrontation. This Task was sure to sap much of his energy—they were not anticipated to have to fight "You-Know-Who" tonight, after all, but he could almost _feel_ the impending confrontation. It would happen _tonight_. Good thing he'd been practicing—with the Sorting Hat, with Thor, with Stephen, with Mother, on the last nights of the month, and even alone. He would need all of it, he was sure. Tonight. Riddle would wait until the Third Task had worn him out to pick a fight with him. He was no fool, unfortunately.

Harry barely paid attention as Bagman introduced the Final Task. He wondered whether or not Mr. Crouch's death had been in the news. Crouch had once been almost a candidate for Minister of Magic: he was not obscure. But the press had kept other things quiet; who knew? The Ministry seemed to have some control over the press, which was never a good sign.

One problem at a time, please.

Harry would be the last one into the maze—a superficial problem. He had no desire to win the Cup: he had no need of money, or fame. He was not desperate to prove himself to the wizarding population, either. The people who mattered were either on another world, or right here, with him, concerned for his well-being, but not egging him on. He'd take his time, and simply try to survive, and conserve his energy. Although, of course, he knew that he also had to _try_. Whatever constituted giving this his best effort. What a balancing act!

Krum and Cedric entered the maze first, tied as they were for first place, and then Fleur, with an offhand wave as she marched into the maze. That left him all alone at the entrance, which suddenly didn't seem that great of an idea. Moody was one of the people patrolling the maze, after all. But…as he was directly in the audience's line of sight, right now, Moody would not dare to try anything, until he was in the maze.

That thought was Bagman's cue to send him in.


	23. Everyone Loves a Maze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Task of the Triwizard Tournament, ending with Cedric and Harry winding up in the Graveyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is ~~getting~~ ridiculous. How about instead of waiting until I feel up to it, I try to reply to a comment a day? I mean, I'll never keep that up, but at least it's a pseudo-reasonable goal, right? Sorry.  
> Also, the universe seems to be conspiring against me posting on time today. Sorry about that, too.

It was surprisingly dark and close inside the maze. There might, almost, not have been a sky up above.

Or ground underfoot. Somehow, that particular phobia had been granted more power by his acknowledgement of his own identity. He'd noticed it, too, that night at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

It hit him particularly hard, now, with the future a clear, almost tangible, threat ahead. Today was another day of reckoning. Perhaps falls, and redemption, and an endless array of stars, were closer to the fore of his mind than they should have been.

He forged ahead through the maze, using that "Point Me" spell that Hermione had found in her research, leading deeper and deeper into the maze. And, of course, it wasn't enough for it to _just_ be a maze—of course not. It was filled with all manner of things, from Hagrid's last remaining blast-ended skrewt, which Cedric was kind enough to warn him about, to an odd patch of ground that inverted ground and sky, which would have driven him to panic attacks, had he been the sort inclined to panic attacks.

They might have designed that one _specifically for_ him. It was hard to pinpoint which, exactly, was worse for his mental health—the inverted patch of ground in his already star-strewn world, or the boggart-dementor he encountered shortly thereafter. Had they taken a survey of their candidates' worst fears when designing this maze, or something? He'd never been asked to fill one out, but there must have been other ways….

He shook his head, determined to focus on the task at hand. He leant against the hedges, half-wishing that they were like Sleeping Beauty's hedges. His death might be better than what they'd end up with if they kept putting him through this…nonsense.

 _Show no weakness_. At the same time, he wasn't about to act like _Thor_. He opened his sixth and seventh senses—just enough to get something of the lay of the land. He couldn't afford the distraction that would be caused by opening them further. Human beings weren't designed for so much sensory input. Focus too much on one sense, and you risk ignoring data from the others. He needed his eyes and ears open, at the very least. Those were his first warnings for most things.

Like Fleur's scream. He was about to backtrack to find her, when he heard Cedric's voice up ahead, saying, "What the hell has gotten into you? What do you think you're doing?"

The use of any oath by the normally polite, mild-mannered Hufflepuff caught Harry's attention, immediately. This was no ordinary trial. He must be talking to Krum—unless Moody or someone had infiltrated the maze—but then, why would they go after Cedric?

He made his way around the corner (the maze seemed to dampen and muffle noise; he should have realised that Cedric would be nearby).

One glance at the scene—Krum had Cedric under the Cruciatus? That couldn't be right…—and Harry pointed his wand at Krum, with a swift " _stupefy_!", before turning to Cedric, who lay on the ground in the middle of a clearing—or whatever you called those opener patches in a maze, wherein half of the traps seemed to have been laid. He glanced around the clearing, and held out a hand.

"What happened?" he asked. "I heard Fleur scream a little while ago, and now—"

"He just attacked me out of nowhere!" Cedric said, his eyes wild and wide. He was shaking all over. Harry could empathise. "I didn't think the Tournament was _that_ important to him. He seemed like a decent enough bloke, before."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Yes. You're right. I was alone with him, even, after Bagman explained the Final Task to us, and he would have had the perfect opportunity to do away with me then, as Sirius insisted upon pointing out to me. Yet, he did not. His behaviour doesn't fit with what either of us have observed. I rather suspect that something else is going on here. Perhaps you heard about Mr. Crouch's death. Someone seemed to have put him under the Imperius—and then gone to great lengths to cover it up. I wonder…atypical behaviour is often the only warning that someone is under that Curse."

He raised his wand, sending up a volley of red sparks, as they had been told to do. Then, he turned to Cedric, whose breathing had evened out. He came over to stand next to Harry, looking down at the glassy-eyed Krum. Cedric looked…regretful.

"If that is still your choice, I suggest you take this opportunity to go on ahead. Be thrice cautious, and pay attention to _anything_ that seems even slightly out of the ordinary. Trust no one. I suspect that we are the only two still in the running. I will see whether or not I can find Fleur. Or, if you wish, we could continue on together. Well?"

Cedric blinked. "Er—I'll go on ahead," he said. Clearly, he still hadn't accustomed himself to the idea of them working as a team. Well, then. "Will you—will you be alright on your own?" he asked, his hufflepuff sense of compassion and fairplay shining through. "I mean…looking after the others—that's the guards' job, isn't it?"

Harry looked him dead in the eye with a blank look that Cedric couldn't help thinking creepy. "Yes," he said. "Unfortunately, I am not sure that they can be trusted. Someone put that curse on Krum…and what became of Fleur?"

Cedric swallowed. "I don't think I should leave you alone—"

"Don't worry about me," Harry said, offhanded. "If you want to continue ahead, then do. Although I don't like leaving Krum here unattended, where anything or anyone could get to him, Fleur is also in danger. As long as you keep your guard up, however, you should be fine. You're still conscious, after all. If you need help, give me a shout. I'm moving on, before the guards arrive."

He walked off, trying to trace the scream he'd heard back to its source. It took several wrong turnings, because he couldn't use the "Point Me" spell on people. He ended up opening his sixth and seventh senses wider, and following his intuition's directions. He hated when he ended up doing that, but it was preferable to leaving Fleur in a lurch. She was actually a nice person when she got over her arrogance.

Was that what _he_ was? He didn't think so.

He found her, at last, and, with a glance around, cast another fireworks spell over the unconscious Fleur. For all he knew, she had also been hit with the Imperius, or something, and wasn't safe to wake. He'd leave her care to trained medi-wizards, or healers, or whatever they were called. The Wizarding World seemed to be in one of those transitional times between terms. He straightened up, and then, with a twinge of conscience, thought back to Cedric. Perhaps they shouldn't have separated.

He set off at a run, now, trying to backtrack, faithfully retrace his steps without all the detours, until he reached Cedric. He knew he'd failed when he came across a being with the head of a woman on the body of a lion (with wings!). He knew what these were: who hadn't heard of the riddling sphinx?

"Hello," he began, uncertain. He knew that sphinxes were very clever, and it was difficult to get anything past them. It did not bode well, that one was a guardian. Short of using the _other_ kind of magic, was there _any_ sort of attack that would even harm them? He hadn't come across any such in his research, but the Tournament thus far was largely a matter of improvisation. It was probably where people had learnt how to disable gryphons, and that you bowed to hippogriffs, and that thestrals weren't that dangerous….

She cocked her head at him, and he wondered then, how good her sense of smell was. You wouldn't have thought that a centaur would have that great of a sense of smell, but they'd sniffed him out.

Come to think of it, hadn't he promised to go back and tell them, when he figured himself out? Oops. He'd have to remember to do that…one of these days.

"The quickest way to the Cup is past me," she said. "Answer my riddle, and I will let you pass."

Of course. But…did he _want_ to pass?

"What if I only want some information?" he asked, folding his arms. Her eyes narrowed at the movement. But she'd stopped pacing back and forth at the crossroads, sitting there like a statue of Bastet, gaze fixed upon him.

"There is something different about your smell. Are you even human?" she said, and he could have groaned. He couldn't stop a minor flash of irritation at this development.

He didn't know what the right answer was, and he didn't know what the best answer was. He wished he at least had one or the other. He didn't even know what he _believed_ to be the truth.

"Is that the riddle?" he asked. "Because that one is a bit too difficult for me."

She laughed, and her tail switched behind her. She remembered, then, that he had asked her a question. "As long as your information is not about how to get through this maze, or sensitive information concerning the Tournament or your fellow Champions, I am permitted to answer."

"Someone has been attacking the others," he said, glancing obliquely at her. "Has Cedric Diggory passed this way? Do you know if he is still safe?"

He was the guardian-protector of Hogwarts, and he had the sword to prove it. Time to live up to his house. Were it not for this resolution, he would have cringed at the urgency in his voice. The two halves of his identity warred against one another, again, when he could little afford such internal turmoil.

"I have not seen him," she said, and he bowed to her.

"Thank you for your information. I will find another way."

"He might still be beyond me," she said, as he turned to go. "I patrol only a very narrow patch of this maze."

He turned back to face her, again. "And if I needed to head back out, again?"

"I would not require you to answer another riddle. I only have so many of them, anyway."

He sighed, and leant back, folding his arms. Without the armour to add colour to his ensemble, he looked some sort of mercenary, the sword girt at his side the most noticeable thing about his appearance.

"Let's hear it, then," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Again, her eyes narrowed, her tail twitched, her wings flexed, but she dutifully recited her little riddle-rhyme. Four couplets, an eight-line poem. Had their riddles always been in rhyme, or was that a little gimmick for the Tournament?

"A person who lives in disguise"? Wasn't life laughing at him again? He scowled, reconsidering the merits of this.

"A spyder," he snapped at her, and she smiled at him, moving to stand aside, to let him pass. Instead, he paused, briefly.

"You…won't tell anyone that I smell different, will you?"

"Not if you ask me to keep it quiet," she replied. "We sphinxes do not often give away knowledge for free."

He stared down at her. She'd given _him_ information for free. Perhaps, somehow, that didn't count…? "Then, I ask that you keep your silence in these matters."

Her tail switched again. "As you require, young lord," she said. He was halfway through that open way when she spoke those words, but he had to turn back to face her again. How did everyone seem to _know_?

He had a moment's indecision. "…Keep quiet about that too, please," he said, at last, shaking his head. He needed to find Cedric.

He found an acromantula, first. This was no Chihuahua-sized newly hatched one, either. He was surprised that it didn't tower over the hedges. How had they hidden it from the entrance?

" _Servo stellas_ ," he whispered, frowning. This was no time to pull his figurative punches. He pointed to the spider. " _Stupefy! Impedimenta! Incendio!_ "

The acromantula shrieked and dropped him. " _Lumos_!" he cried, to ensure that the acromantula was unconscious (and if conscious, it would have chittered and fled; unconscious it was), as he caught sight of Cedric Diggory's blond hair rounding the corner. He stopped, seeing that, apparently, Harry had the acromantula in hand. No matter that it had dropped him from a height of about five feet. Or maybe five metres. It was a bit difficult to tell in this light. He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, unable to suppress a bit of a wince.

"Harry! Are you okay?" asked Cedric, with what seemed genuine concern. He looked at the acromantula, out cold, and sidled past it, where it was blocking most of the way.

"I'm fine," Harry lied. In truth, he rather suspected he might have broken his leg. He could work through pain, but….

Cedric's timing, in this instance, was most unfortunate. But for his arrival, he would have used what Mother had taught him of healing. He might do that anyway, come to it, but he wanted to see the Tournament through, first. And if he were previously injured when he came to face Riddle, so much the better, in one respect. It would make the man more likely to underestimate him. But…he'd cross that _bridge_ when he came to it. Nevertheless, when Cedric steadied him so that he didn't fall over, he didn't push him away.

"I found the Cup," said Cedric. "Nothing is guarding it."

"Then why have you not _taken_ it, already?" Harry demanded, at the end of his patience. Cedric, like most people Harry glared at anymore, went utterly still.

"I remembered what you suggested, about this being a team effort. But you—you've done more than any of us, and…and I think you should take it."

 _Truth_ , said his lie-detecting sense. He tended to ignore it, but this time, it was more or less insightful. Cedric meant it. He'd be turning his back on the sort of glory that Hufflepuff hadn't seen in centuries. He seemed wistful, but stubbornly determined, his face set.

"Grab the Cup, Cedric. I wish only for this night to be over with," Harry said. "For the Tournament to be over with. For the danger to be past."

"You told me about the dragons," Cedric began.

Harry gave a short, bitter laugh. "Everyone else already knew. It was not right that you alone remain ignorant. It set us on even ground." How very hufflepuff it sounded, after the fact. "And you helped me with the egg, which I would never have figured out on my own."

"I had help with that," Cedric said, unable to meet his gaze.

"Someone showed me the dragons," Harry countered. He winced, swaying heavily on his feet.

"And the hostages at the bottom of the lake—I should have stayed to help them all."

"My choice proved that that was a fool's error," Harry said, raising an arm to push Cedric away.

"And you've helped me here—you came through here to check on me; I know you did. You warned me about the threat."

"Anyone with half a conscience would have," Harry said, pushing Cedric back. He stumbled, but regained his footing. Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor, and leant upon it as you would a cane. "If you wish to be of assistance, point at my broken leg—that's the left one—and say _ferula_."

Cedric blinked. "Oh. I think I know that spell. Hang on: _ferula_."

Bandages wrapt themselves around Harry's bad leg, and he took a moment to acclimate himself.

"Much better, thank you. Go ahead, Cedric. I'm not going to be winning any races, on this leg. You deserve the victory. I don't want it."

Cedric sent him an almost shrewd look. "Are you sure you think I'll be safe on my own?" he asked, and Harry at last hesitated. The answer was a _resounding_ "no". Thus far, Cedric had been lucky—but who knew how long that luck could last?

Harry glared at Cedric, who seemed to realise that he'd won. Harry sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, again, and they hobbled through the maze in silence, with Harry, sixth and seventh senses wide open now that sensory overload seemed a lesser threat when he would never run fast enough to escape, paying rapt attention to their surroundings, whilst pouring healing magic into his leg in a trickle, hoping that that would be a bit slower to action, and would help to numb the pain. With his leg bound, it would be harder to tell, even if he healed himself fully.

At last they came to the final turning, and Harry grabbed onto a handful of hedge-twigs, as if he were being dragged against his will, or falling, and these were the only things to slow his progress. Cedric frowned.

"Well, there you are. The Triwizard Cup. I'll just wait here while you grab it," Harry said, with a smile, and Cedric turned an incredulous gaze upon him.

"And all this time you've gone on about teamwork!" he cried. "Well, we've gotten this far as a team; we should finish that way, too. If you won't take the Cup, yourself, then at least join me, here."

Harry sighed. This was another stubborn one. He'd have to watch out for this one, too. "Alright, then," he said, giving up. He had to pick his battles, tonight, and this one wasn't worth it. Maybe he could shove the money and fame onto Cedric post factum, somehow. "You're right. We take it on the count of three, then?"

Cedric studied him as if this were all some manner of trick. Harry considered the merits of doing just that, but decided that he'd prefer it if Cedric continued to trust his word.

"On three," Cedric nodded, satisfied. The manoeuvred into a good position, and then Cedric said, again, and quite unnecessarily. "On the count of three, then. One, two, three."

And they each laid a hand on one of the Cup's two handles. Then, predictably, there was a jerking sensation, the feeling of being tightly compressed, which Harry couldn't help analysing, what with how his seventh sense was wide open, and portkeys were a curiosity anyway. Then, they were hitting the cold, hard ground somewhere quite different, with enough force to knock the wind out of Harry, again. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, and opened his eyes.

They were in a graveyard, a place of ill omen. Sorrow and melancholy defined its power—or, as he would later think of it, were born of the ritual being performed within it—and evil lurked nearby.

The first figure of his Foe-Glass appeared in his line of sight, and Harry tensed, as a sharp pain flared from his scar. Cedric was coming to his feet beside Harry, still clutching the Cup, but he let it go when he saw that they were not alone.

"Is this part of the Task, do you think?" he asked Harry, ever hopeful. Harry surged to his feet, stumbling on his raw leg, but he could work through pain.

"No," he said. "This is one of You-Know-Who's traps. Do you trust me, Cedric?"

Cedric paled, looking about the graveyard in which they stood, as if only now noticing it. Perhaps he _was_ only now noticing it. He nodded to Harry, and drew his own wand against the approaching threat.

"Good. Follow my lead, then," Harry said, and turned from Cedric, watching Wormtail. Wormtail was carrying something in his robes, and Harry had a flash of insight, a hint of memory from the two dreams that had so concerned Sirius.

"Kill the spare," said a voice from the bundle in Wormtail's arms. Given the recent murder of Mr. Crouch, when Harry might have been killed instead, there was only one whom he might have meant. Harry interposed himself, as if by accident, between the two, and cocked his head at Wormtail.

"Ah, Wormtail," he said, with his pleasantest smile. "How _delightful_ to see you again. We have _so much_ to catch up on."


	24. Kill the Spare?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's resurrection, and the aftermath. Part one: in which Loki confronts Peter Pettigrew.

"There's no need to put yourself out killing Diggory, you know," Harry said, still with that pleasant smile, which seemed to unnerve Wormtail rather. _Do I remind you of someone, I wonder?_ Harry thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, where he wasn't thoroughly planning out the current moment. Winging it was his strong point, right? There was only one thing to do.

"Don't trouble yourself; I'll do it myself. Then you won't have any distractions from this nice picnic you have planned."

Because they were in a graveyard, in the middle of the night. Really, it _ought_ to have been Hallowe'en.

Having said this, he turned back to face Cedric, who opened his mouth, and said, "What, wait, Harry! You said—"

He never finished his sentence, because Harry had aimed his wand at Cedric even as he'd turned to face him. The beam of green light hit Cedric dead on, and Cedric fell to the ground at the entrance of the cemetery, motionless.

Harry smiled, and turned back to Wormtail and what was probably Voldemort. They seemed a bit thrown by recent events, but that didn't stop Wormtail from hitting him with a stunner as he was turning back to face them. Somehow, that figured.

He awoke a short time later, to find himself tied to a gravestone by means of thick iron chains. It seemed that Riddle had realised that ropes would not avail him.

 _Mother_? he asked, now that Cedric Diggory was no longer in the way. When Harry'd lost consciousness, the effects of the Star Preserver spell had worn off, which was a nuisance—he'd have to cast it again to supercharge his spells, and he rather suspected he'd be needing a stronger spell than normal to break through these chains. But…maybe, he could break the headstone instead?

"Bone of the father…unknowingly given, you will revive your son!" Pettigrew cried. Harry opened his seventh sense, and only didn't recoil at the sudden kick of tainted magic because he was bound so tight he couldn't move anything but his head and neck.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see that Pettigrew was directing a stream of white dust into a cauldron positioned near the centre of the graveyard. The dust settled into the cauldron with a flash of white light, and then Pettigrew was hurrying over to him. He blinked when he saw that Harry was awake; he must have expected the stunner to keep him out for longer. This meant that Harry had missed less than he might have expected to otherwise. He was not as far out of the loop.

"Blood of the enemy…forcibly taken…you will resurrect your foe!" cried Pettigrew, and drew a knife down Harry's arm. He caught the blood thus spilt in a vial, and trudged back to this cauldron. Harry kept him in his peripheral vision, and opened his seventh sense, to analyse whatever spells had made these chains, and whatever ones had been used to strengthen the gravestone marker to which he had been bound. He sought in vain for any weakness. He did not like the sound of this ritual.

_The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid…greater and more terrible than ever he was…._

What the effects the blood of a goddess in their ritual?

 _Mother, I need the armour,_ he tried, again. He felt his skin begin to burn…no, a deep-seated burning, beneath the skin, running with his blood through veins and arteries and even capillaries, spreading even into the tips of his fingers.

Had his bonds been made of rope, or twine, they would have burnt away. But they were made of iron or steel. The tombstone he was bound to was made of granite, and reinforced, somehow, as he discovered when he strained against the bonds, thinking that if he could not break the thick iron, perhaps the gravestone itself would yield.

He analysed the spells of which the chains were made, found that, unsurprisingly, they were a variant of the familiar _incarcerous_ spell, but with other spells woven in to strengthen the chains, woven individually, into each link—or that was how it appeared. Perhaps a single spell that, when cast, shattered into a hundred pieces, and each took refuge in a different link of the chain.

He turned his mind's eye to the stone behind him, found to his frustration that it was hardly better than the chains. The spirit of this graveyard was against him. For whatever reason, it actively veiled the spells cast on the tombstone, and he had to try to bypass it.

"Flesh of the servant…willingly given, you will restore your master!" Pettigrew gibbered, distracting Harry from his task.

He sighed, and refocused his attention, but he knew, even then, that he was trying to split his focus in too many directions. Sight and sound, his sixth sense currently dormant, but his seventh sense flooded with information. He'd opened it as wide as he could, lest he miss any important detail. It came at the cost of lessened awareness of what was going on around him.

But he still noticed—his attention still snapped to the scene unfolding around him—when his seventh sense flared in warning. A sense of dots connected to one another, an unbroken circle, told him that the ritual was complete. It was too late to foil.

He turned to see Riddle stepping from the cauldron, looking quite different from how he had in the Foe-Glass. Gone were the classic looks that had given him such power in his youth. This version had no nose, as the wraith had had no nose, back at the end of first year, hairless as a snake, with eyes that seemed almost to glow, thin, and bony, long-fingered.

He took stock of this new body, studied it, and then drew his wand, to torture Peter Pettigrew. Harry considered the merits of tuning him out to focus on breaking the spells that still held him prisoner, against the need to know what the enemy was doing. A constant, sharp ache, coursing through his body, focusing in on his scar, ensured that he would not be able to muster the concentration to even try. The latter won out.

"Hold out your arm, Wormtail," Riddle said, when he finally deigned to lift the Cruciatus. Pettigrew lay there, a blubbering wreck, but then he held out a bleeding stump of an arm, to which the hand missing a finger had once been attached. Oh. "Flesh of the servant," hmm?

Riddle laughed at Wormtail's pathetic behaviour, dismissed his thanks. "Not that arm, Wormtail," he said. He seemed almost to be in a good mood.

"Master, please… please…" Wormtail begged. Riddle lifted up the sleeve of Wormtail's left arm, rolling it back to expose a faded, red Dark Mark branded into his arm. He pressed his finger against it, and it turned black, and Pettigrew screamed in pain.

"How many will be brave enough to return, I wonder…and how many will be foolish enough to stay away…" Riddle mused to himself. He noticed Harry finally paying attention to the proceedings.

"Ah…Harry Potter, finally awake and ready to join us? I hope you appreciate the extra lengths I went to, to bind you. Can't have you burning through the ropes and escaping, as you did three years ago. No, Lord Voldemort is clever; he learns from his mistakes."

"He talks about himself in the third person a lot," Harry added. Riddle must have been in a good mood, because he made no move to punish Harry for this "insolence".

"These are quite impressive bonds," he conceded, to be fair. It was impressive magic, if not in the calibre of the Goblet of Fire, the Room of Requirement, or even the ceiling in the Great Hall. For such a swiftly-cast spell, it was impressively thorough. Dumbledore had been right to name Riddle as one of Hogwarts's brightest students. More's the pity.

Now that they'd established a sort of dialogue, Riddle came closer, to speak with him face to face, droning on-and-on about his own past, his heritage.

The fact that his father hadn't wanted him.

Harry's focus was sporadic, limited by the flares of pain, and when they leveled out. It was quite an exquisite pain, if you were a masochist, sharp and bitter and jagged. It left no opportunity for peaceful reflection. It woke the beast in its cage in the corner, and he braced himself for the worst.

_The only way—_

_Not now_! he told the corrupted corner of his mind, as if that ever accomplished anything at all.

"I'm so pleased that you could make it for my rebirthing ceremony," Riddle said, walking towards Harry with fluid grace despite the newness of his body. "You can't see it, but that tombstone you're bound to is the grave of my muggle father, a worthless man, contemptible. I know that you cherish your father, but I killed mine when I was sixteen, and see how much more useful he has proven in death!"

He laughed here, one of those hair-raising laughs that he must have spent decades perfecting. Or, Harry could have told himself that, except for the memory of a sixteen-year-old Riddle laughing in just the same way. That might even have been a Riddle who hadn't yet murdered his family. And that was a pretty screwed up thing to do.

"I revenged myself upon that fool who gave me his name, _Tom Riddle_ , the muggle who abandoned his pregnant wife just because she was a witch," he said, his expression turning into a snarl or a glare, as he stared at the name upon the tombstone behind Harry, a name which might have belonged to the owner of that glare. Did the tombstone say "Tom Riddle", or did it include a middle name? Surely the two of them did not share that middle name, if Riddle had been named for his maternal grandmother.

"How sentimental I sound, going on about family, thus! But look, Harry Potter…my _true_ family returns at last."

Harry reconsidered, thinking that he should probably open his sixth and seventh senses as wide as they would go, and try to break these bonds.

Then, he closed his eyes, as the most obvious solution in the world occurred to him. He had no idea how he'd explain it to Dumbledore, afterwards—as he knew he must—but that mattered little. The important thing was surviving the night. He studied his reserves of magic, and smiled. He thought he even had the energy to carry through with this.

Mother's love continued to circulate through his veins, but, owing to the proximity of Riddle, this only served to sink Harry deeper into a well of pain. He gritted his teeth, as if that would make it more bearable, and cast a quick glance around the graveyard, where Death Eaters were apparating with loud cracks, forming a circle around their lord.

It was time for another monologue, courtesy one _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. And, while he was distracted….

He'd fallen out of habit of using those spells, if they didn't even occur to him. Wizarding magic was always what he reached for, first, second, and third. But, while he didn't want to betray the existence of the _other_ magic to Riddle—particularly not with _Pettigrew_ there—he had his priorities. An ace up the sleeve was worthless if you never _used_ it.

He disappeared from everyone's sight—which was not the invisibility cloak at work; he couldn't reach to use that—projecting what was almost a copy of himself, but wearing only the Hogwarts robes he'd been wearing during the Third Task, with the Sword of Gryffindor girt at his side. Even a little movement, in this still and quiet graveyard, would attract attention. Riddle turned, demanding to know how Harry had escaped his bonds. Harry just smiled, in return. He'd paid a little attention to Riddle's interrupted monologue—which included the surnames of a great many of his Death Eaters, and an explanation of how he'd survived on that Hallowe'en night, thirteen years ago.

Riddle'd made his followers uncomfortable with veiled accusations. He'd promised great things to those who had come to him tonight, vowed to free the faithful trapped in Azkaban, and to punish those who had forsaken him.

Standard villain fare, if Harry could judge (and he probably could). Macnair, Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy…well, he could even recognise Lucius Malfoy's _voice_ , obsequiously lying about how faithful and ready to serve he was. More likely, he served only out of fear, and would rather flee the country and forget all about the war, but lacked the courage…and besides that, all of his assets were here…it would be easier to stay. Harry was inclined to scoff, but his priority had to be setting himself free.

The Sword of Gryffindor suffered itself to be duplicated, albeit in a much weakened form, which was all that was needed. Harry sharpened the duplicate-sword's edge and fortified it against the steel chains it would be forced to combat. Duplicate-Harry cut through only one link of the chain, but that created a sudden slack that freed Harry, and the duplicate vanished, sword and all, the energy dispersing into the air, as the graveyard once again thwarted his attempts. It stripped away the illusion that Harry had vanished, but it was too late.

His leg remembered that it had been broken, and began to throb, his scar insisting that his skull was about to crack open. He shook his head, to try to clear away such thoughts, and stood. He turned in a small semicircle, analysing the odds, counting the Death Eaters around him. He had seen worse odds. He had bested worse. But he had not been alone then, as he was alone, now. Where was Thor?

It wasn't his fault. He would have come, defying all the rules, had he but known. Harry took a certain strange strength from this knowledge.

"Am I your guest of honour, Riddle? I am _flattered_ ," he said, with a smile. His eyes were watering, but he ignored them. Silver fire continued to course through his veins, still shaping itself into something useful. He drew his hands close together to begin shaping a shield, as the armour continued to form.

"But _how_!" demanded Riddle, like a petulant child, denied some trivial thing he desires.

Harry glanced at Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye, and gave Riddle a cold smile. He leant forward. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

Riddle dealt with Harry thwarting the plans in exactly the same way he dealt with insubordinate minions: with torture. In retrospect, Harry should have seen it coming. It was only obvious.

As were the consequences of the torture. After all, the armour of Mother's love was still solidifying 'round him, which meant that the buckler he'd started to make was still far from solid, and therefore, he had _no_ defence against the Curse. Add that to that constant underlying ache all throughout his body, his broken leg, and the way the pain kept increasing as Riddle came closer, anyway….

 _His mother's love protected him. A powerful countercurse, I had forgotten. The spell rebounded upon me, stripped me of my body, and I fled. Fled, but was not defeated. You, of all people, know how far I walked down the road to immortality. I did not die, but I was very weak, far too weak to restore myself to my old body. I remember only forcing myself, second after painful second, to exist_.

 _Why bother_? had been Harry's first response, listening with half an ear to those words. Such incredible pain.

Riddle was generous with sharing his pain, at least. The Cruciatus Curse layered itself through all the other, comparatively mild, aches and pains, into a single wave of agony. Harry knew from prior experience that he didn't stand a chance in such conditions.

_The only way not to break, is not to care!_

The words resounded, reverberated around his mind. He hadn't summoned them, but there they were, nonetheless. Pain was Thanos's way into his mind, after all.

 _Mother_! he cried, but he knew better than to waste his energy trying to fight this. Instead, he turned his mind's eye inwards, in that split second, throwing up a barrier around the corrupted corner of his mind, even as it stretched shadowy tendrils out, boggart-like, to ensnare him.

He built a maze out of the same fortified metal Riddle had used to make his chains, strengthened further with a hundred runes, and gave it a porous weakness by arranging the wall into a maze—it couldn't simply blast through the barrier—it would have to make its way through the maze. He installed another, thick wall of a barrier beyond that, and a third, feebler barrier beyond that. The key was to buy himself time. Now that he'd used the mantra, the only thing he could do was to hold _Thanos's influence_ at bay for as long as he could, until Thor could set him right again.

He had been made whole again, as he hadn't allowed for himself since that night, three years ago. He hadn't been able to risk it. Some piece always had to remain, warding off that corrupted corner of his mind. But now that it was stirring, lashing out, _awake_ , there was nothing he could do. Only Thor could drag him back out of this—Thor, or someone else in the know, who would recognise the warning signs. Stephen. Sirius. Remus. But they were far away. He needed to last long enough to get back to them, and try to avoid any more _pain_ , which would weaken the barriers he'd set up.

He returned to awareness of his own body—swifter, doubtless, than even Riddle expected. He had been brought to his knees, which was unacceptable. He pushed himself to his feet, restarting his lost efforts on creating that buckler as he did.

"That hurt, didn't it, Potter?" asked Riddle, which was the stupidest question he'd heard today, despite spending almost all of it around Thor. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Human? Yes. But then, he _was_ human.

Sort of. (Not really?)

Riddle's eyes widened as he spoke, betraying how startled he was that "Potter" had already regained his footing. To save face, he pretended that he'd lifted the Cruciatus on his own.

"You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

 _Most people would not_ , Loki silently agreed, but he just smiled, in return. He did that a lot, because it was so incongruous. It threw a lot of people for a loop, but it just made Riddle angrier.

"I said, 'you don't want me to do that again', do you, Potter? _Imperio_!"

With that slight warning, he barely had time to even _think_ about raising up occlumency shields before it hit, and he staggered back, but Mother was actively watching out for him. The twine of Riddle's will caught fire when it came in contact with his mother's protective veil.

 _Mother_ , he thought, and began to build an occlumency wall, that she needn't work alone. Riddle's eyes narrowed, but by now, Loki had set up the sturdiest occlumency shields he could think of, both within, and without, his mind. His leg twitched, and he sank down to his knees, again, and then pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his hands back together to begin forming the buckler…for the third time.

 _You have been told that this boy defeated me, and he set me back, I must admit… but no defence remains to him now. His mother's love, which once protected him, now strengthens_ _**me** _ _._

… _Pettigrew would have had me use any wizard who hated me, wouldn't you, Wormtail? But I knew that only one would do_.

… _but I can touch him, now_. A single flare of white-hot pain, cutting through his focus.

The armour continued to take shape, its progress staggered somewhat by his mother's distraction, her need to protect him on two fronts. He blended wizarding magic, and _other_ magic together in a seamless mixture of quicksilver that slowly solidified into fake metal and wood.

"Do you seek to command _me_ , little wizard?" Loki whispered, and any difference in his voice might be attributed to how quietly he spoke, if his voice seemed deeper and rougher, if his accent held a foreign tang to it…but there were those who knew better.

Only those physically closest to Riddle could hear it…this was not a conversation meant for a broad audience. He drew the Sword of Gryffindor.

"You have said that before. Do you claim to be something other than a wizard, then?" asked Riddle, again. Loki glanced at Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye. Pettigrew still had Harry's wand, but he didn't need it, surely. But Riddle the wraith, or Riddle the memory, were not the same as resurrected Riddle. This was not a foe to underestimate.

"You asked that question before," he said, doing his best to sound bored. It wasn't even a relief that Riddle had lifted the Cruciatus Curse prematurely. It had taken its toll. He'd broken, caved, used the mantra. He was now operating on borrowed time. "Shall I give you the same answer?" It is hard to ask a question without raising your voice. His volume naturally rose with his pitch, carrying his question further than he intended or wanted.

The Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably around them, but Riddle had told them to _stay where they were_ , and they dared not to disobey.

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Very well, then. I will ask the question you told me to ask then: Who is Harry Potter?"

Perhaps something that came of the fallout of his ritual informed him that all was not quite as it seemed with the Boy-Who-Lived, or perhaps Harry's abilities made him suspicious. Loki didn't know; he didn't understand the odd turns this man's mind sometimes took.

"Too late," he said, with a cold grin. "You should have asked that, then."

The buckler solidified, at the same time that something else…shifted? Pettigrew inhaled sharply.

"Slytherin colours, Mr. Potter? Dear me, what would your Head of House say?"

Did _anyone_ say "dear me" in this day and age? Except for, _maybe_ , Captain America?

He frowned. "These are _not_ slytherin colours," he cut in, interrupting whatever Riddle had been about to say. "Those are green and _silver_. You would think that you, being the Heir of Slytherin, would know."

He turned his back to Riddle to approach Pettigrew.

"Hello, Wormtail," he said, in his pleasantest voice. "Do you recognise me, now?"

Pettigrew took a step back for every one he took forwards. He was, literally and figuratively, trapped between a rock and a hard place.

"You—you _can't_ be—" he cried, somehow managing to be even whiter and shake harder than Harry had ever seen from Sirius.

"You seem disappointed," he said, in his mildest voice. "Why would that be, I wonder."

At this, Wormtail fell prostrate upon the ground. "Please, my lord, have mercy. I didn't know," he said, and Loki's eyebrows rose.

He sensed Riddle seething behind him, though, so he was getting _something_ out of this. But…that word, again… _mercy_.

"You betray those who fight by your side, who call you friend, and you presume to ask _me_ for my mercy?" he asked, his voice at its very softest, which Wormtail must have understood meant impending suffering. "And let us not forget that among your victims are my mum and dad…for what manner of _mercy_ do you seek, Wormtail?"

"Potter, I asked you a question," snapped Riddle, in a very Snape way.

"I owe _you_ no answers," Loki snapped back at him, his voice suddenly full and carrying, as only a commander or an actor can manage. He turned back to Wormtail.

"Will you answer his question, little wizard? Will you betray _me_ to him? Where do your loyalties lie, I wonder?"

"Wormtail! Do you know what Potter is?" Riddle demanded, his voice sharp and swift as a whip.

Pettigrew looked back and forth between them, eyes flicking rapidly between, perhaps looking for weakness, but there was no easy choice to be had. Loki's eyes narrowed as Pettigrew delayed, and Riddle raised his wand, perhaps to cast another Cruciatus. Behind them, he was aware of the impatient Death Eaters shifting and muttering amongst themselves, but careful to be quiet, lest they catch the attention of Lord Voldemort.

"Well, Wormtail? Who is he, that you hail him as your lord?"

Loki smiled, and Pettigrew began to wring his hands, still holding the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. He glanced at Riddle, and then his gaze met Loki's.

"Your wand, my lord," he said, stepping forward to hand it over. Loki took it without looking, wrapping two fingers occupied with the Sword around the wooden handle, and sliding it back into its holster. Pettigrew would not meet Loki's gaze.

"Is that your choice, Pettigrew? I can see that you do not make this choice out of loyalty, but rather _fear_. You fear _me_ more than you fear _him_. That is all. Do not pretend otherwise. By now, you should know better than to attempt to lie to me."

Pettigrew swallowed, hard.

"You betrayed my parents, and that is unforgivable," Loki continued, stepping towards Pettigrew again, and deflecting Riddle's spell with an almost casual ease. He wanted to get "Potter"'s attention before he killed him, but his patience was always short. Loki wasn't sure that he could block the Killing Curse. And speaking of….

"I tire of you, Peter Pettigrew. But, in the end, you did not forsake me utterly. I will show you mercy, after a fashion. But, whatever I have given you, I revoke."

"You—you _can't_ ," Pettigrew whispered, tears streaming down his face, and Loki wondered just what he'd given him. But he did not amend his words. All he said was,

"That includes your life, Wormtail. I spared you last year, and have lived to regret it. But I shall show you _mercy_. Do you wish to know what that mercy is? It is that you shall have a swift death, and not the prolonged one that Riddle or my brother would inflict upon you. Be grateful."

He knew just the right angle to impale a man's heart, which was a more intimate sort of demise than he would have preferred to bestow upon Pettigrew, but you couldn't have everything. He would have had to bend in order to sever the vulnerable femoral arteries, and the carotid artery was hardly more convenient. This was the most dramatic death he could award Pettigrew, and it was even better to know that he'd died before he could change his mind, and betray Loki after all.

"Well," Loki said, turning back to face Riddle with a smile and a sword coated red with blood. "Now what?"

It was telling that even Riddle was disturbed by _that_ smile.


	25. Mother in the Physical World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's resurrection, and the aftermath. Part two: _Priori Incantatem_ , and that part set up for in chapter fourteen, wherein Loki drags his mother into the physical world.

He was aware of a tangled net of spells launched in his direction, but, as none of them were the type to bend or change their course to pursue their target, he simply leant out of the way, raising a brow. He was well on his way to infuriating Riddle. It was an easy thing to do. Unfortunately, this time, he had backup in the form of highly impatient Death Eaters, which meant that his temper tantrums had more weight.

Oh, well. Against all his training, Loki sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, drawing the wand Pettigrew had recently returned to him. Wandlore suggested that the connection between their wands might work to the benefit of either. But Riddle was unaware that it existed. That put the odds _slightly_ in Loki's favour. He'd take "slightly", if that were the best offer, which he rather suspected that it was.

"And now, we duel," said Riddle, as if he'd planned it all along, but in reality trying to wrest back control over the situation. "Has Dumbledore taught you proper dueling etiquette? First, we bow."

Loki was very much tempted to refuse to do this—beneath his dignity, Riddle was a slytherin liable to attack the moment he broke eye contact, and all—but he was trying to _not_ be arrogant and smugly superior anymore, and not bowing before a duel was something that Malfoy would have done. _Draco_ Malfoy, that was. Having never been in a duel against Malfoy Senior, he'd refrain from making any hasty assumptions.

He inclined his head, five second bow between peers (which he supposed Riddle was), and straightened up. He had the sense that Riddle was big enough on drama—just see what a production he'd made of tonight!—that he'd observe the niceties, too. His form was so serpentine that you'd be excused for not believing he _had_ a spine.

"Dumbledore didn't tell me," Loki said, raising the buckler between the two of them. "It was Lockhart taught us that. It must have been one of the few things of any consequence that he knew."

He cheerfully ignored the fact that the duel could scarce be considered even to have begun before Riddle had flung another Cruciatus his way, as if to make up for the brevity of the previous one's hit. But it hit the buckler, instead, with the impact of a punch, and Loki braced himself, ignoring the gasps from the onlookers. You'd think they'd have learnt by now. Surely, some of those spells Riddle had launched at him to get his attention whilst he'd been talking to Pettigrew were Torture Curses.

"I wonder who taught _you_?" he mused, as if they were having a friendly conversation instead of a duel to the death. He was too used to the latter for them to phase him much, anyway. "Was it Dumbledore?"

Riddle was incensed at his refusal to take the duel seriously. Loki could see the rage reaching a boiling point, and took two or three steps back.

It occurred to him that he'd assumed that the Death Eaters wouldn't interfere (it was dishonourable),and this realisation troubled him. It would never do to assume such restraint or honour from this lot. These were the ones who'd had the nerve to claim to be under the Imperius to avoid prison, and yet here they were. There was a sort of invisible Tug-of-War going on, between cowardice and hatred. Here, when both at last aligned again, they returned to their master's side. Pathetic.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" cried Riddle, which, of course, Loki had been expecting. But he wasn't sure how to react. The buckler had blocked the Cruciatus Curse—he tried that, first, but it burst the shield on impact. His eyes widened. He didn't have time to form a second one. Time for some quick thinking.

As Riddle raised the yew wand again, Loki aimed at Riddle, crying, " _Expelliarmus_!" against Riddle's " _Avada Kedavra_!" There was cause to choose that spell, of course. If it hit, it _ensured_ a period of vulnerability for Riddle, and it doubled as an attack, unlike his second choice, the stunner, which could be undone by any of the Death Eaters still ringed around them, and with greater speed than it would take to wrest Riddle's yew wand out of Loki's hands.

Of course, that was assuming that the spells functioned properly, which they decided not to, because that was how the universe worked around him. He was—how had Sirius put it?—a source of localised chaos. Instead of the Killing Curse killing him, or Riddle losing his only weapon (and Loki acquiring it), a beam of light connected the two wands—the two spells, each vying for supremacy. Whoever had the stronger will—not greater power, but a stronger _will_ —would force his spell through, but lore disagreed on what happened after that.

Time to find out. He forced the current of energy back towards Riddle (there was no way that _he_ would be judged to have the weaker will). The spells met in a strand of gold thread—thicker than thread, _twine_ —and where they met was a lump in the spell-yarn. He thought of queens, and of looms, and of household drudgery. He thought of murder, and sacrifice, and redemption. Happier times, lost beyond recall; sorrows to drown the world in tears; the lost, the forsaken, those whom fate had failed.

He forced the energy down the line, studying the golden strand, but not daring to touch it. He forced the yew wand to swallow the lump of raw energy, which was too much for it.

It began to regurgitate the spells it had recently cast—recordings of screams (the Imperius left no audible trace); a giant silvery hand, bestowed upon Peter Pettigrew, minutes prior to his demise; and then a long pause to indicate those restless months when the wand had seen little use. As the wand spat up the ghosts of spells, a web sprang up around them, made of thread-of-gold fibres so thin they were almost invisible, which guaranteed that they were stronger and sharper than steel. Neither he nor Riddle were ever fool enough to try to attack or force his way through them.

Then, a man, an old man, whom Loki (Harry) had once seen in a dream appeared. Fog lifted around those memories; he recalled that it was the dream of the summer—the one that had sparked Sirius's protective concern. The old man carried a cane, though he had no use for it, now. But, there was something about him—perhaps his defiance then in his last moments of life, as now, or perhaps something else, the way he stood his ground—that Loki…respected. It put him in mind of the warrior mentality of another culture, _show no weakness_ , worth and virtue only in valour and strength, fortitude.

"That's the man who killed me. You fight him, boy," said the old man; his voice full of strength and resolve, he turned to look down his nose at Riddle, as if far above him. Loki remembered another time, another old man, and _wondered_. Such a tenuous connection, but a feeling of similarity, a point of divergence, as if the men were one and the same, although they couldn't be.

_(There are no men like me._

_There are always men like you.)_

_And this is one, I suppose,_ he mused. _This 'Tom Riddle'. But it is not_ _ **me**_ _whom this one defies._

It was like being on the winning team. It was like being in the right. It was like being a hero. It had the outward trappings of righteousness, and filled him with a strange sort of… _purpose_ , and camaraderie—a sort of kinship with the old man. He ignored Riddle's exhortations (or orders, more accurately) that his followers _stay where they were!_ again. He found himself turning to the man, and saying, as if the man were more than a regurgitated image,

"What do they call you?"

After all, the old man had spoken to _him_ , first.

"Name's Frank Bryce," the elder said. "That man, he says he's a lord—"

"He lies," Loki said, voice too level. He was stricken, just then, by the powerful realisation of how alike Riddle and he could be, in certain circumstances. _You cannot lie to the Dark Lord_ , and Loki will know if you attempt to lie to him. Death is the only mercy that you can expect. Could the Death Eaters even tell a difference between the two?

"Are you a warrior, Frank Bryce?" he asked, as Riddle twitched, unable to move, bound within the confines of this spell, his wand rendered useless, he could speak, he could move his head, he could twist his torso, but his arm was as immobile as a bridge of stone.

Loki knew, because he was in the same situation—or near enough it. There was a flicker of life to his arm, the sense that, although it felt as if an insurmountable barrier surrounded it, that barrier could, if enough force were exerted, be shoved aside. The different colours surrounding the two of them suggested that Riddle did not have that luxury. The glow surrounding his arm must be the barrier keeping his arm from moving, and it was bright white. That white line blazed across from wand tip to wand tip, before encasing Riddle in a solid, muted grey.

Two shades of silver, the purer kind used, rumour held, in the forging of the Sword of Gryffindor—that was the colour that surrounded Loki—and a blander, almost iron grey, which surrounded Riddle. Active and inert. Light and dark.

 _Am I a lord of light, then?_ he thought with some amusement. He, a bringer of light, of order, not ruler-conqueror, but liberator. _How far I have come_!

A realisation: perhaps he _had_ come far. Perhaps he _had_ changed, " _grown in his exile_ ", become better than he was.

"I fought in World War II against them Nazis," the man said, with no small amount of pride.

Ah.

_The last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everyone else, we ended up disagreeing._

"He is very similar. Perhaps you recognise the type. You are brave to have faced and fought him when you lacked a proper means of defending yourself. If ever I have the chance, I shall speak to my father concerning your fate. In the meantime, I may only hope that you receive the reward that you deserve, in the next life."

The old man asked no questions. Perhaps he was distracted by the appearance of another form, that of a woman Harry had never seen. She was fairly young, and forgettable-looking, with an absent expression to her face that abruptly cleared.

"Harry Potter?" she asked, but he had gone beyond the Rules of Invocation. They could not apply, when there was only he, unified against the corruption within and deadly peril without. He did not know this woman, but had no doubts as to how she recognised him: she was a witch.

"I'm Bertha Jorkins," she said. "More are coming. Wait for them…wait…be strong."

There was a gentle lilt to her tone, reassurance, almost strength. He recalled hearing about her, in that first dream, recalled Bagman's dismissal. ("She's always been a bit scatterbrained. She'll wander in in October, thinking it's still July!" he laughed at the World Cup, and even then, she had been dead, for these spells revived in reverse order, and Frank had perished before the Quidditch Cup. For Riddle and Wormtail to have discussed this woman's death while Frank still lived—)

More screams, feminine ones—Bertha's screams, he realised, with a brief widening of the eyes. She seemed unaffected, coming to stand at his left, as the old man stood behind him.

If this spell reawakened the recordings of all the spells the victim's wand had cast—like that spell the late Mr. Crouch had used at the World Cup—then…then….

A foolish Death Eater reached for the gossamer threads of the arena, and yowled in pain, withdrawing his hand as his fingers burnt with the intense heat. Loki scoffed. It was clear that the arena was made of light—or lightning. Hmm….

Bertha brushed his shoulder, and then nodded to Frank, and they set off around the perimeter of the arena, as if on patrol. As they came near Riddle, they hissed things even Loki couldn't hear at the man, making him blanch, as he waited, unable to move, for the cage of light to finish its tale.

And Loki realised that, as Riddle had no control over the arena, perhaps _he_ did. He was used to physical arenas, but this cage of light, although it held them immobile, was just as much a dueling ring as any physical amphitheatre.

He held the wand steady, even as its weight seemed to increase tenfold by the second. He knew what he was waiting for, now. He _knew_. And, as he waited for a decade to rewind before him, he _planned_. He thought of that night, two and a half years ago, tried to pinpoint how it had worked, how he'd made the stars align just right. He bent his mind to that task, when he should have planned further. Perhaps he should also have thought of Cedric Diggory, but the boy didn't occur to him.

He erected another barrier around the maze he'd created to keep Thanos out, unsurprised to find that the outermost had crumbled already; that was what it was there for, as a breakwater. The outermost defences would take the brunt of any assault first, because any such attack was directed towards _him_ , and never Thanos. That energy, which could tear down his barriers, proceeded as a wave until it hit a "sandbar".

Whichever was stronger prevailed. If the barrier was demolished, then that energy—that pain—continued to the next, and the next, which, in this case, was the maze. He could not let it reach that far. As a wave against the shore, the pain would eventually erode his barriers. This one had taken quite a bit of damage, as had the second one. The outermost barrier always managed to be the weakest, anyway. Mental turbulence, no doubt.

A glow lit the graveyard, casting all in sharp relief, tombstones reaching out long shadows, as a faint woman in blue jeans and a loose, long-sleeved pale blue blouse dropped from the wand that Riddle held. The most vibrant thing about her her long, fiery red hair, faded, yet brilliant, as a candle in a pitch-black room.

He didn't know how great the distance between them was, but she crossed that space in seconds.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice full of regret…sorrow, tears in her eyes, a smile on her face, she spread her hands in a familiar, welcoming gesture, but then her hands stretched out further, reaching for him.

"Be strong, Harry. James is coming. He'll be here soon. Wait for James…."

She was so misty and murky, and _human_ even in death. There was something liminal about her, something too like what he now was. Not a distant queen, not a loving housewife, but only one dead woman among many, a name amongst the nameless masses, neither here nor there, and therefore perhaps not anywhere.

She was more than a curiosity to him, but a curiosity she was, nonetheless, a chance to see his mother, the human. But there was another way to that.

He missed his dad's arrival, too busy being indecisive, the hand clenching the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand white with the tightness of his grip, his entire arm shaking with the strain, and with something more taxing than mere exertion.

"Mother," he whispered, knowing that the word did not mean the same thing to her as it did to him. A gulf emerged between them, an abyss, and he'd lost her before he'd even met her.

He reached out his left hand for her, unthinking, took her hand, closed that divide, the abyss that had threatened him so often before. Frost crept down his arm, invisibly trailing silver-white under his sleeves (good thing that Riddle couldn't see), gathering on his hand, coating her hand and continuing down her arm. An answering fire traveled in red and orange wisps from her shoulder down, melting the frost as it went, reaching their connected hands and traveling up his arm, meeting the silver fire that already thrummed in his veins.

The vagueness of her form solidified, changing as it did, until she wore a pale blue and lavender dress, an ethereal glow about her, lighting the air around her, as if she were the noonday sun, and bore with her the sun's radiance. Her fiery red hair almost crackled and sparked. Loki knew that the only reason that Riddle did not take a step back was because he was frozen in place by their joint spell. He leant back as far as he could, instead.

"Mum," Loki whispered. He didn't know why, but he didn't want her to be _Frigga_ , his mother. He wanted her to be Lily Evans. Perhaps it was because they were in a muggle graveyard. Perhaps it was because of Riddle's presence. Or perhaps, it was because of the man he knew would soon appear amongst them.

"Harry?" asked a voice. "Is that— _is_ that you?" asked an almost-familiar voice. James, in grey denim and a black t-shirt, pulled himself to his feet, straightening up, and staring, as if across a channel, at Lily and Harry-who-was-not-Harry.

He shrugged, and smiled, as if not at all disturbed. As if it didn't _hurt_ , not to be recognised by his dad. "What is your difficulty, I wonder," he said, with a broad wave of his left hand. "Do I perhaps remind _you_ of someone?"

James stumbled on the uneven ground, again. Whether this was a tell, or a consequence of him having working feet, was hard to say. "…I'm having some difficulty telling: are you my _son_ , or my childhood friend?"

Loki's smile widened. "Do you consider those two to be mutually exclusive?"

His dad climbed the hill to join them, Lily all aglow with godly fire, a halo all about her, and Loki, his sort-of son. His son. His _son_.

"I suppose it depends on whom you wish me to be," he said. "Rules of Invocation, and all."

Completely ignoring the fact that he couldn't afford to relax even a little, and the Rules of Invocation were temporarily locked up in a safe, although they still applied to Mum.

"A choice?" asked the shade of James. "Who is more important to me?"

Loki nodded.

"I want my son. Harry," he said, reaching out to him. James rested a hand on Loki's shoulder, and turned back to face Riddle.

"Dad," Loki whispered. It was surreal, unfair, to have a father, one he knew had _died_ for him. Unfair, that he had the chance to learn why, and yet, had no opportunity.

Riddle had resorted to the embarrassing strategy of attempting to yank his way free of the confines of the spell, which just made him look silly.

"We will be your guards, Frank, Bertha, and I. We are dead, _umbrae mortuorum_ ; Voldemort can no longer harm us," James said, in an even lower voice. "Lily, you—"

"I have some tricks up my sleeve," she said, with an almost austere smile. There was a certain distance to it, certainly. Perhaps it was a difference in their natures that she was unable to overcome, now that she knew of it. Perhaps it was because, in another time and place, she was already married. Did they _love_ one another? Did it matter?

He'd turned her into a different person, mostly by accident. He'd erased the shade of Lily Evans, overwritten it, dragged out the woman from his dreamscape, and superimposed her upon the otherwise false image.

He'd turned her from illusion to reality. That wanted to remind him of something, but the _what_ wouldn't come clear. He hated when that happened.

"Lily?" asked James.

There was a pause. Loki needed _Lily Evans_ , particularly, he realised. Asgard was a warrior culture, but Sif was the only woman who showed much interest. But Lily, Lily Evans had fought in the war against Riddle, before. She would know how to use magic to _fight_.

"Mum—" he began.

"It'll be alright, honey," she said, with a warm smile. He'd reached through to her. He truly knew the Rules of Invocation. "I'll be your guard."

Another Death Eater had grown impatient, and decided to see whether the barrier might have cooled in the interim. Loki saw him sucking on his fingers in his peripheral vision.

"I'll be his bodyguard," she said, left hand sliding into a pocket in her dress that hadn't been there a minute ago. The dress faded into the blue jeans and blouse of before, and she settled an arm around her son's shoulders, in a move both familiar and strange.

"On the count of three, make a run for it. Even you can't hope to take on all of Voldemort's Death Eaters—and the man himself—and live." James sounded haggard, and worn, and he looked around the graveyard as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

"He is only a fragment of who he was," Lily murmured. "Less even than what I am. Most of what he is lies in the Otherworld. Do not think less of him."

James joined the patrol, with a backwards glance at them, and a nod. It was as if he hadn't heard. They wouldn't be able to hear him across the way, unless he yelled. Perhaps that was the signal.

Bertha Jorkins nodded to Loki, as she passed. Frank was too busy keeping watch to notice him.

"Head for the Triwizard Cup, and Diggory," Lily whispered. "It is a portkey, after all. It brought you here; it can take you back."

"On the count of three, break the spell," James said, as he passed by again. A glance at Riddle suggested that the man was boiling with rage, and would be firing ten Killing Curses a minute the second he was free. Loki began to shape the buckler that had protected him, before.

Perhaps to spite Riddle, the shades of souls slain waited until it had solidified before giving the signal.

"Now!" James called from across the way, and as the way to either side was barred, he twisted the wand, yanking it downwards, instead. The cage dissolved, but the spirits of the dead lingered.

"Run!" Lily cried, and shoved him towards the Cup, before turning to face Riddle for the fifth time.


	26. Cedric's Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's resurrection, and the aftermath. Part three: escape from the graveyard, and Loki's conversation with Cedric afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this have a plot hole, or does it not? I'm ambivalent.

He heeded her commands, although it went against all he had ever been taught of honour or chivalry to leave her behind. He knew that she couldn't be truly harmed, being dead. But there was also the realisation that her lifeforce was tied into his own, which he'd come to in the wake of the Quidditch Match of Doom. He rather suspected that _he'd_ suffer the effects of any damage she suffered. But he also guessed that she knew this, and would go out of her way to avoid being hit. But, suppose that Riddle realised…?

He couldn't run, but that was of little consequence. All he needed was to get out of their line of sight, and then create a distraction, misdirection, and hide under true invisibility, one not granted by his Dad's cloak. Perhaps equal in strength? He was unwilling to reveal that secret, the invisibility cloak, to Riddle and the Death Eaters. They already knew that he had a strange, foreign magic to him; they did not need to know about this magical artefact. Invisibility cloaks were not common as garden gnomes, after all.

He broke through the Death Eater ranks, casting stunners before they could recover. Riddle was already screaming at them to _stop him! Kill him!_ in a voice very like that of teenage Riddle at the end of second year. He was not, however, speaking parseltongue, which raised the question of where the giant snake Loki remembered from his visions was. Riddle'd said something about feeding _Harry_ to the snake (Nagini?) earlier, which meant that she must be nearby. But there was little time to waste thinking of giant snakes, when he knew that a throng of Death Eaters were casting stunners (and Killing Curses) in his direction. The only cover to be had in this graveyard was tombstone markers.

He ducked behind the first one he came across that would block him from their view. He didn't regret not fully healing his leg before the battle commenced, but at the same time, it complicated things. But he knew that maintaining his mother's form in the physical world was draining his magical reserves swiftly, no matter how much practice he'd put into the _other_ sort of magic this year. And this, too, would take a large chunk of his energy, just to buy him some time.

He closed his eyes, and _focused_. It had been a very long time indeed since he'd had cause to use this particular trick—but it was necessary, here.

He wrapt himself in a different sort of invisibility from the cloak, and sent a duplicate scrambling from cover, limping from tombstone to tombstone, aiming for safety which it would never find. It moved at a good pace, he reflected, as he set off on his own course, footsteps carefully chosen, treading lightly, lest he catch the attention of the Death Eaters, casting their Killing Curses at the duplicate, now.

It was tempting to reach for the ambient magic of the graveyard, but he could feel how it had warped and twisted, buckled under the weight of Riddle's spell of resurrection. It was too dangerous to risk, particularly with only his barriers keeping out the corrupted corner of his mind.

He had to go at a slower pace, but it was worth it—"haste makes waste", as they said.

He caught a glimpse of the giant snake from his dream, slithering around the perimeter of the graveyard, testing the air. She'd know the difference between him and an illusion, he realised.

Haste became paramount, and he quickened his pace, barely glancing back at the Death Eaters. A sharp pain lanced through his midsection, and he felt himself falling, as if one of those curses had hit, despite the buckler, despite his protections. The invisibility dropped—one of the downsides of not using the cloak. The buckler dissolved. But he was only ten feet or so from Cedric Diggory, and the Triwizard Tournament Cup. He could make it.

But, he couldn't move. There was a separation, a sense of detachment from his body, for a moment. He looked down at his own body, sprawled on the ground. He looked over at Cedric, as the fingers twitched, as the breeze ruffled his clothes and hair.

The snake Nagini hissed in triumph, and Riddle turned to where Loki's body lay, in the grass, and began his approach, unhindered by his erstwhile adversary, Lily Evans, whose body had dissipated into whatever that smoky stuff was of which souls were made. It took form, visible, he knew by Riddle's lack of reaction, only to Loki himself. She glanced at him, tears in her eyes, and stretched out a hand.

"My son," she whispered, hand outstretched, waiting for him to take it. He knew that she could outwait him.

"Mother," he said, bowing his head in acknowledgement. A strange energy began to fill him, even as he felt himself begin to deteriorate.

"And what of Thor?" she asked, as if he had asked her a question, or given her an argument. "What of the girl, Ginny, and your friend Hermione? What of your plans, the wars you are meant to fight?"

"Another could fight them," someone else might have said. "Haven't I been through enough?"

But it flared briefly, in that moment: a need to atone. He remembered what Thor had said, that he'd come back in time to save these two: Loki, and _Mother_ , and both were lost, in some fashion, if Loki died.

 _"Either must die at the hands of the other_ ," Mother warned. "You will not perish if you do not return to your body."

"I have no choice, you mean," he said. He felt it now, a strong silver cord that bound him to his body, drawing him back in.

"Would you choose otherwise?" Mother asked. "Only you have the power to reweave fate."

He took her hand, and there was a shift in focus, abrupt, disorienting, and he was lying on his side in the grass. He didn't know how he'd twisted, even as he'd died, at the last moment. Something had changed, shifted, again, as it had each of the last three years. He'd been remade, become someone different again from who he'd been before. That was growing old. He'd died again. That was more infuriating.

He turned to Diggory, unsurprised to see that Mother had disappeared, and crossed the last ten or so feet, unprotected. He found that crawling forwards on his hands and knees made him a more difficult target to hit, and he had no protective gravestones. He did not want to be arrogant, smugly superior. He came up next to Cedric Diggory, and took hold of his arm, and then, with a sigh, pointed the holly wand at the Triwizard Cup, hoping that it could be summoned _now_.

" _Accio_!" he cried, as Riddle, of course, screamed,

" _Avada Kedavra_!" Perhaps he was wondering how Harry had moved after being hit by that curse, or perhaps it had only hit Mother, after all.

He caught hold of the Cup with his last three fingers, and the portkey whisked the two of them away, Cedric and Loki.

It was taking him somewhere in particular—he could feel its intent, its purpose. But he had no regard for the designs he was about to thwart. He tied the bungee cord that pulled you through space into a knot, wrapping it in a circle around the first likely place he came across.

Later, he would be obliged to concede that he was fortunate not to come to a halt stuck in a solid wall of rock, or even the plastered walls of a modern townhouse, but for now, he was just relieved to come to a stop, for the moment, setting down the Cup, knowing that that knot in the cord would keep it from heading on to Hogwarts without them. He needed time for the armour to dissipate. He'd prefer no one knew about it. And he should also renew that stunner he'd cast on Cedric, if it hadn't already—

"What the _hell_ , Harry!" Cedric demanded, leaping to his feet, now that the immediate danger was past. At least he'd had the common sense to realise that, hey, the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who were overlooking him; he should probably stay still and play dead.

"Ah. You're awake," Loki said, with a smile. "Smart of you not to move."

"You hit me with the Killing Curse!" Cedric cried, throwing up his hands. Apparently, even a stalwart Hufflepuff could only take so much.

Loki frowned, and raised an eyebrow. "I did _not_ cast the Killing Curse on you," he said. "If I wished you dead, you would be dead, now. I used a stunner."

"It was _green_!"

"A little trick I picked up," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Cedric said, running a hand through his hair, which was very straight and tidy, even after all Cedric had been through, tonight. There was some dirt in there, and a couple of leaves, but it was nothing like the tangled mess that was Harry's hair on a good day. It was tempting to hate Cedric for any number of reasons, but being accused of murdering him ought not to be on his list.

"Professor Moody said in our lessons that the Killing Curse would only take, if its caster could muster up enough hatred and bitterness—"

"If I had wished you dead, that would not have posed an obstacle for me," Loki repeated. "I am not a hero, Cedric Diggory."

"Okay, I get it. Thank you for saving my life. I guess you're right. You killed Pettigrew, after all. That _was_ Pettigrew, wasn't it?"

Loki froze, just briefly, and turned to face Cedric. It was tempting to wander around this house, see what it could tell of Riddle's origins. He knew that this was the old Riddle Mansion, the house in which Riddle doubtless thought he ought to have been raised, (and that, perhaps, rightly).

"How much did you _see_ , Cedric Diggory?" he demanded, giving Cedric his undivided attention for the first time since their arrival here. That stunner had been reinforced with the Star Preserver spell; it should have lasted a long time. Just how _long_ had he been unconscious?

"Enough," said Cedric, in a deadly serious tone. Loki sighed, and folded his arms. He'd just wanted to stay here long enough for the armour to fade away, but it hadn't gone, yet. It was important to look weak and defenceless before the spy, the Death Eater whom Riddle had explicitly mentioned being at Hogwarts.

"Maybe You-Know-Who wasted his chance to ask, but I've never been in a position where it seemed necessary to ask who you were, so I don't think I've wasted _my_ shot at it. Who is Harry Potter, then?"

This was not how he'd wanted the night to go. Then again, he also hadn't wanted the night to go with Riddle resurrecting himself using dark magic. Hallowe'en and June, he reckoned, were the worst times of the year for him.

"And I suppose you also wish to know about this armour I wear," he said, brooding.

" _That's_ armour?" asked Cedric. "Well, yeah, then, I guess I also want an explanation for your sudden wardrobe change. You keep going on and on about debts. I guess you owe me, Harry. You owe me an explanation, at least."

He wanted to protest—Hermione did not know yet, and she had been his friend for years. His plans, such as they were on track, were occurring out of order. But what else could he expect? Perhaps he was a god of _chaos_. It at least made more sense that putting him in with the likes of gods of order.

"This is a very big secret, Cedric Diggory," he began, and Cedric frowned.

"What, we're going by full names, now, _Harry Potter_? That's kind of a You-Know-Who thing to do, isn't it? I mean…I thought we were _friends_."

This was news to him, but before Ron and Hermione, he'd had none (that he recalled; the Marauders complicated _everything_ ). If Cedric said that they were friends, he probably knew better.

"What else should I call you, then?" asked Loki, at a loss. "That _is_ your name."

But Cedric had a point. And, hey, he'd been calling the boy "Cedric" up to this point. He continued before Cedric could give a response.

"Well then, _Cedric_ , this is rather a big secret," he said, and there was a sense of accomplishment as his diction stretched tendrils out, reaching for the twentieth century. Or possibly even the twenty-first.

"I can keep a secret," Cedric said, settling down into the old armchair before the (currently extinguished) fire. Had they floo powder, they would have had an alternate way into Hogwarts, but, alas, they were stuck springing Moody's trap.

"I do not know you well enough to judge whether or not you could keep this secret. Nor, I believe, do _you_ know yourself well enough to truly judge such a fact."

"What, do you want me to swear an Unbreakable Vow?" asked Cedric, as if he couldn't believe that a secret that big existed. Loki leant against the fireplace, not bothering to glance around the room. The dust that covered every inch of floor in the rest of the house was completely absent here.

He probably didn't expect _Harry_ to seriously consider his request. "That requires the presence of a witness, and we have none," he said, instead.

"So, what, you won't tell me?" Cedric demanded. Perhaps he was right to react so strongly to this secret-keeping, when it pertained to a situation in which he had nearly died.

"I will ask you to swear an oath to speak not a word of this to anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , including Dumbledore, including your parents, except those who already know, although, of course, I understand that you will not always recognise when you might say something, on accident, that would otherwise break your promise. How will you know if someone knows the secret unless you are allowed to hint? That is my backdoor for you," he said, thinking of that day, at Grimmauld Place, what he'd thought about binding the Marauders 'round about with promises, with dire consequences should they break it, but a way to discover who knew and who didn't know. How he'd wanted to make the terms fairer. Had he succeeded, or had he replicated the oath that had bound them? If only he _remembered_ ….

He shook his head, and continued. "Understand that this oath that I would ask of you would be as binding as an Unbreakable Vow, for all that it is unknown. I do not easily forgive those who would casually break an oath sworn to me, but as the fate that awaits such violation is worse than death (there are many such fates), I am lenient. Would you be willing to swear such an oath, Cedric? Think carefully. Is this knowledge worth that for you?"

Cedric swallowed, hard. He thought he understood the weight of the oath. But there was a reason that he had been chosen Hogwarts's Champion. They'd gone through this tournament _together_ , had won _together_ , and then, this. He needed to _know_ , to understand tonight, or it would haunt him for the rest of his life. If he needed to keep this secret from everyone, then that is what he would do.

Throat tight, he nodded, sensing that he'd just made a momentous decision, but unsure what he'd just gotten into.

"We have but little time in which to discuss this," Loki said, not looking at Cedric. "But perhaps more could be explained, later. Are you certain that you wish to know, Cedric?"

There was almost sympathy in his voice. Almost pity.

"Yeah. Yes, I swear." Somehow, Cedric knew that it was important to say it aloud, to speak those words. He looked at the floor.

"We need to arrive at Hogwarts before word can reach You-Know-Who's spy, saying that I have escaped. They think you dead. That will be some protection for you, until they learn otherwise."

"I'll fight against him; I'll join that group of Dumbledore's protectors. The top-secret one. I'm in this to the end," Cedric said, eyes blazing bright. You had to hand it to him—he didn't want for courage or passion. But Loki wasn't sure he quite understood what it was, to fight such a war.

"I will keep things brief. I am only waiting for the armour to fade away before we take this portkey, probably back to Hogwarts. You-Know-Who's lackey will be waiting for us. You must be on your guard."

"You said that you'd explain what happened. You said you'd tell me who you were," Cedric said. He couldn't help sounding a bit petulant. He leant forwards in the armchair, staring across the room.

"It is a complicated tale, and long. You will need to make do with the abbreviated version, and ask more of my brother, later."

Cedric blinked. Harry Potter was an only child. James and Lily Potter had been too young to have any other children. Who—?

"I will ask you a few questions, to begin," Loki said, as if he'd just come to a decision. "And although they might strike you as irrelevant, and unconnected to the subject at hand, trust me, nothing could be further from the truth."

 _Trust me_.

Cedric nodded, as if he'd taken a vow of complete silence.

"Tell me, Cedric, are you Christian?"

This sentence, this question, came out of nowhere. Cedric blinked, as if it had been an _attack_ that came out of nowhere, hitting him in the head so hard that he saw stars.

"Er…yeah," he said, hesitant. This did seem unconnected to the subject at hand. "Most of Wizarding Britain is."

Loki scowled. "I know. Tell me, Cedric, do you believe in reincarnation?"

Uh…. "No?" he asked. Loki leant forwards, hands clasped before him.

"But they mention reincarnation, even in the Bible," he said. "I might direct you to a passage or two. The Dursleys had their biblical phase, before they realised that they couldn't even keep the Ten Commandments. Hmm."

He waved a dismissive hand.

"Well, I suppose that you're one of those old-school Christians—it would be just my luck," he added, with a bitter grin. "I suppose you think the gods of other religions, if they exist at all, are all demons and… _monsters_."

He spat out the last word, and Cedric's brows drew together into a bewildered furrow.

"Well, yeah," he said, nonplussed. "But, what relevance does this have?"

Loki sighed. _What_ , indeed? "Well, they are wrong. I will not seek to make you forsake your faith, but perhaps I might… _broaden your horizons_ , a bit." He winced at his own choice of words. "I will tell you, for instance, that they are not—at least for the most part—not demons or monsters, but they are very real. Can you imagine _Ron_ with scaly red skin and a tail?"

He paused to try to imagine the scene, but it was impossible.

"No. He is a true protector, a true gryffindor, the embodiment, as I told him, of heroic valour. He is a hero."

Cedric swallowed. He might have asked what relevance Ron Weasley had to the matter, but he could take such a blatant hint. He might not have been in Ravenclaw, but the Cup had tried to find the most balanced candidates, the most well-rounded, that there were. He was not a fool, either.

"You can't be saying—" he began, nonetheless, but he cut himself off.

"Of course, I am not like Ron. I am not a hero, as I said before. In truth, I don't even think I'm a very good person. I have done things that I regret. I have done terrible things. Perhaps that makes me a monster. But Ron is my brother, and he knows me best. He does not seem to think me irredeemably evil. Perhaps a second chance is all that anyone needs."

The armour dissipated in the manner of smoke. He stared at it, its wisps and curls, in fascination. From green and black they turned into bright silvery wisps of smoky haze.

"Are—are you saying that you're a _god_?" demanded Cedric, head in his hands. Oops. He hadn't meant to overload him.

"Reincarnation, Cedric," Loki reminded him, with an almost gentle softness to his voice. "This particular tale is quite complicated, and involves reincarnation into the past. Ron became quite a celebrated hero in the future, before he went back in time. All the more reason for secrecy, however. _I_ am not a god, but my previous incarnation _is_ and he is still out there. I suppose I should be glad that you are not liable to ever be the sort who might be tempted to appeal to the gods you know for help, for you might thereby attract the attention of my past self, and he is now still so bitter and full of hatred…. I doubt that it would end well for you, either."

He glanced at Cedric to see him gulp and lean back in the armchair, practically squirming.

"If you wish to know more, then you must seek out my brother. Tell him that I have told you. But keep this a secret from Hermione. She does _not_ know, although Ron ought to tell her."

"Then…you're saying…you and Ron are the reincarnations of _gods_?" Cedric asked, approaching a state of mild hysteria.

Loki frowned. "No. Only _I_. _Ron_ is what you would call a theophany—a god appearing amongst men. He just plain _is_ a god."

Cedric slumped. The truth was, he could no more imagine Ronald Weasley as a red devil tempting the weak-hearted into sin than he could imagine him as a god. It all seemed impossible, a hallucination, perhaps caused by lack of sleep. But here he stood, after that light had hit him, and he'd thought he would surely die.

But, how could he go back to normal after this? Didn't this _have_ to change everything?

"Then…then what gods are you saying you _are_?" he asked, in something of desperation.

Loki only smiled, and reached out a hand. "I am no longer a god. I am only human. But… my mother was as I am. The blood of an awakened goddess flows in my veins, and I have the soul of a god, but the body of a human. Perhaps, I should be impressed that I have not worn myself out. The magic I used then is not beyond my reach."

"That's how you changed the colour of the spell you cast on me!" Cedric realised. "And later…how you disappeared…and that duplicate."

"You are swift on the uptake, which is just as well. You heard that there was a spy at Hogwarts, one of You-Know-Who's Death Eaters. From the moment of our arrival, we must be ready to fight—unless you wish to play dead a while longer. No one would think less of you."

Cedric would think less of himself. He was sufficiently distracted by this change in topic, keeping in mind that he must remember to speak with Ron. This was insane.

"I mean to fight," he said, again.

Loki smiled. "Then, be ready to fight Moody. I suspect that he's the double agent."

"But, he's Dumbledore's friend," he protested, internally cringing. He must be just responding automatically now. He was overwhelmed by what he'd just heard—and he owed Harry, or whoever he was, his life, but….

"We shall see," Loki said. "If you wish to come with me, rather than making your own way back, then take the Cup with me, again. On the count of three, now. One, two, three."

Cedric had to scramble to reach the Cup before the countdown ended, and they once more each grabbed hold of a handle.

Loki untied the bungee cord, and, freed, it snapped, dragging them back at incomprehensible speeds, returning them to the front of the maze that covered the quidditch pitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Cedric lives. Congratulations to those of you who figured that out.


	27. Three Hours in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation with the fake-Moody is followed by a confrontation with Doctor Strange is followed by a conversation with Dumbledore.  
> (This is the last chapter I knew how to name for awhile, so this is also: Three Hours in between: Hour One)

Loki shook his head. The adrenaline had begun to settle, or had mostly settled, and he'd become aware of just how _tired_ he was. He'd already expended quite a bit of energy, tonight. But it was true what they said of sleep: it brought down all barriers. He had at least three that he could not afford to lose yet. The influence of the corrupted corner of his mind was still wending its way amongst the dead ends he'd provided for it, seeking for an escape. His brother needed to be warned. He could rest only later, when he'd told Dumbledore what had happened, when he was alone, or alone amongst those who knew, who could help, who could withstand his worst attacks.

Thor, certainly. Sirius and Remus, almost likely. No one else. He must seek for shelter, of all things, at Grimmauld Place.

Beside him, Cedric began to drag himself to his feet, amidst cheers. But the Triwizard Cup perhaps had not been designed to do what it had—or, rather, even to carry them to the front of the maze, for Dumbledore appeared in his peripheral, approaching them at a rapid pace, alongside Moody.

Thor reached them first, reaching out for Loki even as he stayed kneeling in the dirt, as if he lacked the energy with which to stand.

"Harry!" Thor cried, as if sensing something amiss, without needing to be told. He knelt by Loki's side, and a memory of times long past tried to surface, but he shoved them aside, favouring more recent concerns.

Loki focused on him, needing to get the news out, before the impending battle, before he could become distracted, before he could forget. It was vital.

He ignored Moody, ignored Dumbledore, ignored Cedric, for the moment, reaching out to grab the folds of Thor's sleeve.

"Forgive me, Brother," he said, and he knew that Thor could hear the slight difference in his voice, the hint of a foreign accent, if his voice was a bit raspier, deeper, stronger, but darker, too. "I never meant for it to come to this. Riddle tortured me in the graveyard, and I used the mantra. I will hold it off for as long as I can."

Thor tensed, but all he did was pull Loki to his feet.

"Little brother," he tried, and Loki turned away.

"The Rules of Invocation will not work on me, when all of my energy is needed to hold the other at bay." He turned to the newly-arrived Dumbledore, before Thor could formulate a response. "He's back," he said, reaching for Dumbledore. "You-Know-Who has returned."

"It's true, sir, I saw it myself," Cedric said, his voice surprisingly level considering recent events. It must be whirring at a fast pace, trying to process what he'd just overheard, to make any sense of it, even as he cast a wary glance at Ron.

"Harry, what have I told you?" asked Dumbledore. "Fear of a name only—"

Mr. and Mrs. Diggory were climbing down from the stands—and not only they. Sirius looked shaken, as if he'd _sensed_ the shift in the cosmos. Remus was not far behind him.

"You'd best see if you can talk some sense into Fudge," said Moody, nodding at the Minister, who was winding his way over to them. "I'll take Potter to the Hospital Wing…come along, Potter."

"I will go with him," Thor said, in his best Crown Prince voice. No wonder Neville, Dean, and Seamus obeyed without thinking, when he used that voice.

Moody frowned at this unexpected wrench in his plans, but he gave a curt nod, and away the three of them hobbled (well, Ron didn't hobble, but he was the only one with an uninjured leg). Cedric glanced around, looked at his approaching parents, and stayed back. Loki did not blame him.

Moody brought them, at a surprising pace, to his office, full of an auror's tools of the trade, and knickknacks. Loki's eyes snapped to the Foe-Glass set against the wall. Figures strained to form within it, as if uncertain as to their roles. They were three.

"Sit down, Potter," Moody said, in his usual gruff growl. "And drink this…should clear your mind, help you focus."

Loki took the vial offered to him, but he was not about to drink it. Who knew what it did? It might be poison intended to kill him if he escaped Riddle's grasp. Moody was not entirely rational; the usual defence that he would _not_ harm Harry, just because other people knew where he was, did not apply.

"Drink up, Potter!" Moody snapped. Loki feigned drinking the potion, and reached for the other kind of magic, to cast a vague illusion, one to make it seem that the potion were being drunk, the bottle emptied. He put the "empty " bottle in the folds of his robes, and Moody frowned. Well, he could hardly examine it later to see what it did if it were empty, or no longer in his possession, now could he?

Thor glanced his way, and then looked right back to Moody. Moody nodded his approval. Loki glanced again at the Foe-Glass, where the figures were deciding to solidify, as if this were now the obvious scenario. The one in the centre was definitely Dumbledore. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall stood to his right, and Professor Snape to his left.

He thought of the three figures of his own Foe-Glass. The first two he had met, tonight, had clearly seen, positively identified. Tom Riddle, now revived. Peter Pettigrew, now slain. One remained, but he did not look like Alastor Moody. Then….

 _This_ must be the straw-blond man with the bright blue eyes. Perhaps they would at last learn his identity.

For this could not possibly be the real Mad-Eye Moody. Loki ensured that his face betrayed no suspicion, as he related the tale of what had happened, how the Cup had brought him and Cedric to the graveyard, Riddle's resurrection ritual, the monologue, the appearance of the Death Eaters. That was when "Moody" turned strange.

"And did he forgive them?" he demanded.

Loki blinked, genuinely perplexed by this response. "What?"

"I'm asking if he forgave them. Those cowards who didn't even face Azkaban for him. Tell me that they suffered. Tell me that he tortured them. Tell me that he told them how I, alone, remained faithful to him, how I have given him more than any of the others. I who entered your name in the Goblet of Fire, who guided you through the tournament as best I could, who eliminated the opposition to your winning the Third Task, who stunned Delacour, and put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that you would be first to grab the portkey to the graveyard, and he could complete his resurrection. And I will kill him for you which he was unable to do, and he will honour me as the son he never had!"

Oh. Okay, this again. It had been a while since life had pulled one of these on him. Probably at least an hour, and this was an end-of-year crisis. The allusions were sure to come pouring in.

"Do you honestly believe that he'd be pleased if you beat him at something?" he asked, cocking his head, leaning back in his chair as if bored, even as Thor tensed near the doorway.

Loki glanced at the Foe-Glass, saw how the figures within it were solidifying. They were too wispy to rely upon. He needed to act _now_.

"Moody" ignored his question, except for a twitching of his brows. He raised the wand to perform the curse, and Thor was there, quick as lightning (of course), to grab hold of that arm and twist it backwards until something snapped. "Moody" gasped and dropped the wand, which Thor, by design or on accident, kicked over to Loki, who picked it up, glancing again at the Foe-Glass, as Thor hit the man hard over the head.

" _Stupefy_!" Loki said, somehow managing not to roll his eyes. Thor blinked, and took a step back.

"Ah. Yes," he said. He didn't have a hammer, either, so the origins of his confusion were difficult to discern. It wasn't as if he had a wealth of weaponry to choose from.

There was a crackling sound from the air nearby, and an orange ring of fire appeared as an oval in the room with them. Someone stepped _through_ the ring, as if at a circus, and Loki stared.

"Don't give me that look, Loki," Stephen said, waving a hand, palm down, in his direction. "You already know about sling rings. I told you about them."

But he'd never seen one in use before. He was almost inclined to pout.

"You're late," he accused, instead. Thor folded his arms, at the side of the room.

"Well, I'll keep this short, then," Stephen said, and Loki realised that he might have taken those words at face value. Time travelers made _everything_ more complicated. "I came here to speak to Thor, anyway. Thor, don't let your brother use any more magic."

Loki's eyes widened. "Now, just wait—" he began, but Stephen cut him off. Thor seemed confused, looking back and forth between them as if there were some prearranged agreement to which he had not been privy.

"I mean it. He's used a lot of very draining magic tonight. If he doesn't stop, he'll die."

Thor rounded on Loki, demanding, "Is this true, Brother?"

Loki frowned, just briefly, and crossed his arms. "He's exaggerating," he insisted. "I'm fine."

 _Show no weakness_. The night was not over yet. Who knew what threats remained? Clearly, he'd survived in the original timeline (or…rather, whatever number timeline before the one they were currently on). He refused to be hemmed in; he needed the flexibility to defend himself. Moody may be out cold (for now) but he'd believe that he was safe when _Dumbledore_ gave the all-clear. If then. And let's not forget the barriers he'd built to wall off that corrupted corner of his mind!

"Yeah? So you didn't use magic to bring your mother into the physical world? Or fight off Voldemort using some of your older tricks?"

Loki glared at him. "I am going to kill you, Stephen," he announced, his words a pronouncement, a death sentence, even if he wasn't sure that he meant that quite literally. "I thought you were my friend."

He was faintly aware of Cedric having said the same thing, not very long ago, which did nothing to improve his mood.

"I _am_ your friend, damn it!" said Stephen. "That's why I'm trying to _save your life_. _You_ are ungrateful."

He was completely unaccustomed to Stephen being the one to lash out. He knew that Stephen had the capacity for anger, being a thinking, feeling being, but he was usually calm and collected.

He wasn't right now, however. Right now, he seemed the sort who could fight Loki on equal footing…at the very least as he now was. And… _was_ he merely being ungrateful of the fact that someone cared about him? How would he have reacted if Thor were in his place?

He glanced over in Thor's direction, as if watching the scene play out before his eyes.

"If you won't agree to not use magic for the rest of the night, maybe Thor should use those handcuffs on you. After all, we can be certain that _they_ work."

Loki's eyes widened, again, as he considered the ramifications. If he thought promising not to use magic was a corral, it was nothing next to the idea of being bound into magiclessness—in the most literal way possible. Then, he wouldn't be able to help, if it was needed. He'd be unable to defend himself, except with the Sword of Gryffindor. But if he gave his word….

And that was a low blow, bringing up the handcuffs, as Stephen had. He had to know the residue of bitter memories that they dredged up. Not to speak of how incredibly conspicuous they would be—if his goal was to go about unnoticed, they would draw unnecessary attention, thwarting his best efforts.

His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders slumped, head bowed. He spread his hands, in surrender.

"Very well. I will promise not to use any magic for the rest of the night, if you will refrain from using those handcuffs. But this is the _only_ time I will do this. Do not think that you have found a ready means of subduing me."

"Yes, yes, we get it; it's only because tonight is exceptionally difficult. Blah, blah, blah."

"Can we trust you to keep your word?" asked Thor, and Loki frowned.

"I have the Sword of Gryffindor," he proclaimed, drawing said Sword. "I have no need for greater magic, tonight, I suppose."

Never mind that his leg still ached and throbbed. It was somewhere between "broken" and "healed", but he would need to work on it, later. For now, no more frivolous magic.

"I promise that I will use no more magic tonight. Does _that_ satisfy you, Stephen?" There was, of course, a bitter bite of reproach in his voice, but he had mostly calmed himself down, except for that bitter undercurrent that always seemed to lurk just beneath his awareness. It was not cause for concern.

"It'll have to do," Stephen said, glancing at the door. Loki could feel it, too—people approaching, heading for this room.

"I told Sirius and Remus where you were. I'm getting the hang of this 'seventh sense' thing, although I'm not as good at it as Sirius, yet, I don't think. You haven't told me much of what happened tonight, but I kept watch, as you asked."

"You missed the graveyard," he said, folding his arms, and glancing at Ron. "A boy named Cedric nearly died."

They were too close for further discussion, now. He knew the confrontation had to wait. "Go on, Stephen. We'll fill you in on what happened tonight, later. Even if it be twenty years hence."

Stephen waved his hands in a circular motion, and a ring of fire slowly grew there. It expanded into a doorway, and Stephen stepped back through, and out of sight.

Less than a minute later, the professors arrived, breaking down the door, Dumbledore leading them with fury radiating from every pore of his body. Tonight was endless.

* * *

"Polyjuice Potion?" Loki repeated. "Then…he was stealing ingredients from Professor Snape's stores to brew it in secret. I see. He pretended to be performing routine checks to gain access to areas otherwise forbidden to him."

He stared at the slop on the floor, and then looked back at the blond-haired not-quite-stranger lying on the ground before them. Remus sat up against the wall, on the floor in a corner, eyes wide, but Sirius kicked at the motionless figure, as if to pat him down for weapons without having to touch something so filthy. Thor had moved into the corner with Remus, and Snape was off retrieving his strongest vial of veritaserum. Hadn't he threatened to spike Harry's pumpkin juice a few weeks ago? Yet not a word of apology, when he must have realised what had truly happened, by now.

"Good heavens! Barty! Barty _Crouch_?" asked a gobsmacked McGonagall, clutching at her chest as she entered, trailed by a blubbering Winky, who peeked around McGonagall's leg, and gasped.

"I thought he might have forgotten to take the potion as the dosage is recommended: once an hour, every hour, for as long as you desire the effects to last. When Severus arrives, we will begin."

Loki had not had to plead the case that "Ron" be allowed to stay. Somehow or other, Dumbledore seemed to understand the necessity of his presence, although Hermione and Ginny were probably having fits by now, both over Ron. And perhaps Harry, although he would never gratify himself by assuming such.

They were only waiting for Snape, now.

* * *

"I'm not leaving him," Sirius insisted, in what might almost be considered battle stance. Arms crossed, head back, straight-backed, unyielding, he stared Dumbledore down.

"No, I suppose not," Dumbledore said, with a heavy sigh.

"No more will I," Thor said, as if as a continuation of Sirius's statement. There was a certain solidarity there. Dumbledore nodded.

"I expected no less. Truly, Harry is in good hands, but he has truly great friends. Doubtless, Ms. Granger would also wish to join us."

"I'll stay back, and get her up to date," Remus offered, and Dumbledore gave him permission and a kindly smile. He led the way to his office, gave the password, and cordially allowed the others to precede him up the stairs.

Loki turned to the cage containing the phoenix Fawkes, who looked vague and blurry-eyed, to the extent that a phoenix could ever seem either.

"Hello, again, Guy," Loki said, with an empty smile. Hollow. Fawkes gave a sad little dirge of a song in response, which was fitting.

Dumbledore (literally) drew up a number of chairs and beanbags for them to sit upon. Sirius chose a beanbag, arms still folded, eyes narrowed at the Headmaster, as if to read his mind and divine his intentions. As was usual, Thor stood off to the side, in a strikingly similar pose, leaning against the wall, careful not to cover any of the portraits. Dumbledore took a seat behind the desk, and Loki, still wary, carefully lowered himself into the seat on the other side.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore suggested. Sirius ignored the bowl, but Loki took one for tradition's sake, and Thor, looking wary and out-of-place, followed suit, but neither ate them.

"Thank you," Loki murmured, nonetheless, and then reached into the pocket of his cloak to withdraw the potion Moody had tried to have him drink. "Does this perhaps belong to your friend, the real Alastor Moody? Do you know what it does?"

Dumbledore barely glanced at it. "I don't know the answer to either question, my dear boy, but I'll have Professor Snape take a look at it. For now, we have more urgent matters to discuss."

It was suddenly very difficult to breathe.

"Oh?" Loki managed, at last, hand clenched tight over the muggle candy.

"You must have known that I would ask you to relive the events of tonight," Dumbledore said, in his gentlest voice. "I know that you are tired, and that you have done a lot tonight. Tonight, you have shown greater strength and courage than wizards many times your age. You have shouldered a great burden, and found yourself equal to it. The Wizarding World and I are in your debt. But now, I must ask you to demonstrate that courage for me, one last time."

Tonight was everlasting, neverending, interminable. It was one thing right after the last. He'd _died_ , and yet, somehow, life still did not see fit to give him a break. In other words, it was just like any other June at Hogwarts (bar the last).

Just the same, except….

He thought of Winky, doubtless crying, still, in the Hogwarts kitchens. He thought of Bartemius Crouch, whose fate was yet to be determined, who had escaped justice because his father had, for once, gone against his own nature, and shown something that approached compassion, concern, _love_.

The thought of the fake-Moody led Loki to remember Pettigrew, whom Crouch'd confessed to breaking out of Azkaban only last year. He thought of Peter Pettigrew, questioned whether they would even bury him, those Death Eaters, or whether he was perhaps as worthless to them as he was to Loki.

"…'Courage'," he scoffed. "Was it _courage_ that carried me through, tonight, or necessity?"

But he spread his hands wide, and leant back. He caught a glimpse of Sirius's narrowed eyes. If anyone were smart enough to figure out what had happened, _who_ was speaking with Dumbledore, without it being outright expressed, it was Sirius.

Something flickered behind Sirius's eyes. He glanced at Thor, who nodded. You would think Stephen would have mentioned it—but then, he, for whatever reason, did not seem to differentiate between _Harry_ and _Loki_. What that portended for the future could not be known. Every year, he was born again from his own ashes, like a phoenix. Who knew what he'd be, twenty years hence?

A twinge of conscience, at his recent behaviour. This was not the opportune time to think about it.

"I suppose that you care little about what occurred during the Third Task itself. In the end, however, Cedric and I agreed to tie for the Cup—I had never wished to enter to begin with, but Cedric was insistent. But the Cup was a portkey…it took us to a graveyard…."

This was how he began the story, already thinking several steps ahead, remembering the possible solutions he'd turned over earlier, during the battle itself, even, how much to say, what he could rightly explain away. He justified stunning Cedric by the entirely true supposition that Pettigrew would else have killed him, quite deliberately not glancing at Sirius, but knowing that his eyes had narrowed even further, fists clenched tight, standing rigid as a statue at the mention of his erstwhile friend.

He did not, of course, mention that Riddle supposed Cedric Diggory dead, or he would have had Pettigrew kill him, stunned or not. He was too great a liability, else. Let Dumbledore draw what conclusions he would; the truth was too far-fetched to be cause for concern.

He related what he had witnessed of the ritual of Riddle's rebirth, barely pausing at the glint of triumph in Dumbledore's eyes as the ritual completed, but filing it away for later reflection.

He glanced at Sirius, to see whether or not he had taken the same meaning, but Sirius stood, impassive, quite as still as before, motionless, and Loki continued, giving a cursory mention to Riddle's initial monologue presaging the arrival of the Death Eaters.

He enumerated them all, all those whose names he'd heard. It was not that important, next to Riddle's second monologue, which he skimmed over most of, but paused when he remembered that explanation, his mother's love, turned back in on itself. " _Some of you believe this boy was my downfall…_ " he had said. " _His mother's love protected him. A powerful countercurse; I should have foreseen it_ _…. But, no matter, I can touch him now_."

"Very well," Dumbledore said, looking haggard and worn, and very, very old. "He has managed to get past that particular obstacle. Continue."

This was the trickiest part. How had he escaped from his bonds?

But Dumbledore did not know about that first confrontation, did not even know that Harry had been bound, let alone that Mother's love had burnt those bonds away. The Sword of Gryffindor was a ready excuse, as well as the actual tool that had broken his bonds. Which, come to think of it, was impressive all on its own. Those had been reinforced steel chains, after all. The Sword of Gryffindor was truly a unique weapon.

And now, he came to the part that confused even him, which would, as a consequence, require more accuracy and detail. He told of killing Pettigrew—it had to be said—and of the start of their duel, his and Riddle's. Then, he came to the part that he had known would be hardest to talk about.

The memory of it brought that part of him that he would ordinarily consider _Harry_ Harry to the fore. As if he'd been caught doing something fun at the Dursleys, his gaze lowered, and he stilled, slumped over.

As if sensing that brief, slight shift, Sirius came over to stand by him in the blink of an eye, face quite as drawn and weary as everyone else's, tight with concern. He laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, which prompted something that had to be considered a strong reaction, in comparison to Loki's usually rigid self-control. He looked up to meet Sirius's gaze, a forewarning, and Sirius's breath stilled. He took a step back…but the hand remained on Loki's shoulder, as if transfusing strength.

"He cast the spell—the Killing Curse—at the very same time that I cast the Disarming Charm. Wandlore disagrees, you know, on what to expect after that. I know that Ollivander said that our wands shared a core, but it is difficult to find any references on the subject. There are only two such wands in the world, Ollivander said. Ours."

"They both contain a feather of the same phoenix, yes, one who is particular about those to whom he gives his feathers," Dumbledore said, gaze somehow remote and shrewd, yet mild with an intuitive sense of Loki's difficulty. He knew that the digression had to be made, perhaps remembering the protracted question and answer session at the end of first year.

He glanced over at the cage standing in the corner, and Loki followed it, momentarily at a loss for words. "What—do you mean _Guy_?" he asked. Fawkes lifted his beak from under his wing, preening, and giving a sleepy, but decidedly _smug_ , trill, before returning to sleep.

This was something Loki could not have predicted. _What the odds_? asked a small voice in one of the corners of his mind. He assumed that it was his, but it was faint. It might have been Mother.

Dumbledore looked almost serene, and there was a pleasant moment of tranquility, before they returned to the graveyard, and the hardest part of the night for Loki to speak of. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. With his eyes closed, the scene could play back before him again—forcing the tangled knot of spell back into Riddle's yew wand, the cage of light, and then the screams, followed by the appearance of Frank Bryce.

Thor had not been there in Germany, he didn't think. At least, not early enough to know about the old man. He would perforce miss some of the details that stood out for Loki. But he could always explain things more accurately, later.

"I understand Sirius's insistence that we tell you about my dream over the summer, now," he said, trying to dismiss the entire affair as unimportant.

But there was a question that needed to be asked, during this lull in their conversation.

"Professor," he said, in his levelest voice. "You seem to recognise what it is happened in the graveyard. What _happened_? It has been bothering me since…well, even when it was happening."

" _Priori Incantatem_ ," said Dumbledore, tone still serene and relaxed, but somehow more guarded, despite that, now. "It is an incredibly rare phenomenon, and little is known of it. Much of what I will say is conjecture, based on personal theories, and, yes, some observation.

"It is true that a variety of different outcomes can result from two 'brother' wands being forced to duel one another, depending on a variety of different factors, if I were to guess, including the skill of each combatant, and the components of each wand. _Priori Incantatem_ invokes a battle of wills—who has the greater will and focus to force the spell cast from his opponent's wand back to its place of origin.

"The overflow of energy would seem to result in a sort of ripple effect—like throwing a rock into a pond, the displaced water has to go _somewhere_. The energy used to fuel the original spell is dispersed by recreating _echoes_ of the previous spells the wand has performed, in reverse order, until that energy is used up, or it runs out of spells. Breaking the connection would have disrupted the flow of energy, which would have stopped the process of the recollection of the spells.

"Because you did not break that connection, it continued to feed off the energy of the initial spell, as well as your magic. And that would mean…was Mr. Bryce the only one to seem to return from the dead?"

"No," Loki said, looking down, fists clenched. He thought of Mother, again, wondering what to say. Thor seemed to notice his tone of voice, expression tight with concern.

But there was nothing to do but to continue.

When he described Bertha Jorkins, Dumbledore nodded, and clasped his hands before him. "Yes, that is Bertha. I remember her when she was at school here. She could be a bit flighty and a gossip, but I knew that Ludo Bagman did her disservice, waiting as long as he did to start searching for her. Particularly now that we know that she is the individual from whom Voldemort learnt of the Triwizard Tournament.

"It is difficult to say what we might have been able to change. Every choice we make affects the future in a hundred different ways. His inaction strikes me as an innocent oversight."

Loki dragged the wand's continued backwards trek forward, with that same, almost masochistic determination that had driven him last year, when he'd confronted Ron about the truth after an already long day.

And at last he reached it, the critical point. He would not speak of drawing her into the physical world—there was too much of the _other_ magic about it, and he thought that he might be able to figure out that part, himself, as Dumbledore had just explained that web of light, the connected spells, the regurgitated remnants of bygone spells.

He was aware that his voice was ragged, hoarse, strained from suppressed emotion that he kicked aside, again. Thor came over to stand by him, leaving his post.

Loki struggled to rein in his own emotions. Had he ever been good at that? He didn't recall. He thought that he might, historically, have condensed them into a cold, callous mask. He could not use _that_ tactic in the here and now without rousing Dumbledore's suspicion. He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at Ron, and then at Sirius, still standing over him, transfusing strength, eyes soft with concern for him—for either him, for _both_.

He sat up straighter, and Thor nodded. _Show no weakness_. The silent message passed between them. He was ready to disregard Stephen's statements of the absurd counterproductivity of such a mindset. It was what he knew; it had helped him to endure the Dursleys; it had saved his life.

It might also have damned him, but that was beside the point.

He came to it, speaking slower, now, softer, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, as Sirius's grip tightened to an almost painful degree.

He told of his mother's arrival, but not of reaching for her, as he had when he had faced the Mirror of Desire. And then…James…. Sirius's fingers were white and bloodless with the tightness of his grip. Loki affected not to notice. He skimmed over most of what they said, telling instead of his dad's spur-of-the-moment plan. Then, the breaking of the cage, dodging from tombstone to tombstone to reach the portkey, and grabbing hold of Cedric, and taking hold of the Cup. But…before he could….

With a glance at Thor, whom he knew would be all the angrier that he was hearing about this only now, he told of being hit by the Killing Curse (in retrospect, it must have been he who had been hit, or Riddle would not have been that triumphant. Or, that was what he told himself, for the sake of closure). He described how, as he had lain dying, Mother had appeared, what she had said—that he had no choice but to live, and how he'd returned to life.

"Nor is this the first time I have died," he said, recalling the end of second year. "Tell me, Professor, when the prophecy says that ' _either must die at the hands of the other_ ', does that mean that we are, for all intents and purposes, _immortal_ until one of us kills the other?"

Even Dumbledore seemed to be aware of Thor's mounting wrath at the idea that Loki had not, first and foremost, when he had first appeared at the entrance to the maze, told him that he had died _yet again_. But, there were more pressing matters on his mind, then. Still, he sensed an impending lecture, true to the vein of the continuing ironic drama of his life. Dumbledore hesitated, perhaps with the excuse of having to pause to consider the idea, before speaking.

"No. I don't believe that it does. Prophecies are as much a matter of choice, as I believe I told you last year, as they are of destiny. Voldemort chose you over Neville Longbottom, and ensured that you had cause for revenge upon him, his quests for his own resurrection preventing you from having mastery over your own life and destiny. That is what is meant by the phrase ' _neither can live while the other survives'."_

"And what of the phrase before it: ' _either must die at the hands of the other'_?" Which was the relevant point, the point he'd initially raised.

"It means only that the war is decided only by the death of one of you or the other."

He was hiding something. Loki's eyes narrowed. That last bit of explanation had even less relevance than the previous. But _what_ could Dumbledore still be hiding from him?

His thoughts were wrenched from such musings by Fawkes.

Fawkes had awoken again, and spread wings like fingers of flame out to their full breadth, for just a moment, before he landed on Loki's knee, with a reproachful glare, and tore through Cedric's field dressing with his beak, before shedding some of those thick, pearly tears on his leg, healing it, good as new. Not just for wounds, then. Good to know.

"You know the tale from that point," Loki lied. In truth, Dumbledore didn't even know the tale to the point where he'd left off, but he was not going to admit to redirecting the portkey, or his and Cedric's brief chat in Riddle Mansion. Besides, he needed to go to Grimmauld Place, or somewhere else secluded, and be brought back to his senses. There was no time to waste, thus.

"I see," said Dumbledore, voice grim and heavy, an ominous ponderance to it as he surveyed the room.

"I will need you to gather the old crowd," he said, turning to Sirius, who just turned his head to face Dumbledore, as if Dumbledore were unworthy of greater effort. Still, he was listening. "Lie low at Arabella's—"

"No," Sirius said, voice firm. "I think I will do more good here. You can send Remus. He'd love it, maybe get a good meal or two out of it, and you can't deny he needs it. I think _I'm_ needed _here_."

He turned back to Loki. "You alright…kiddo?"

There was no good way to respond to that.


	28. Three Hours in-between (Hour Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor has a good idea for how to buy Loki some time. Loki goes to the Hospital Wing to wait things out, only for Ginny to notice his odd behaviour.

Dumbledore left them to go speak with Remus…and Fudge…and Snape…and McGonagall. Tonight was keeping him busier than he had been for a very long time—perhaps since the last war.

He left Loki, Thor, and Sirius to themselves, to regroup at the Hospital Wing. The unfortunate thing being: he couldn't _afford_ to go to the Hospital Wing just yet. Not with his barriers even now crumbling (because he didn't have the energy to support or to sustain them). He needed to get away from people, and that meant giving Sirius a friendly reminder as to the part of his narrative that might have been forgotten about. The brainwashed, dangerous part. The part where he tried to take over the world.

He pulled them into one of the many empty classrooms lining the hallway. This one had not seen _official_ use in quite some time: the broken lock of the door ensured that it remained abandoned, until such time as someone saw fit to have it fixed. Which, in true Hogwarts fashion, translated to "never".

"Why are we stopping here?" asked Sirius, in evident bewilderment. "The Hospital Wing is—"

"Trust me: I am well-acquainted with the location of the Hospital Wing," Loki snapped, straightening his back, and Sirius re-evaluated the situation. Okay, this wasn't just Harry-as-Loki, as he'd seen back in Grimmauld Place. This was somehow…a step further? Still in between, but much more on the "Loki" side of things? Well, he'd had to deal with him often enough when he'd been a full-fledged god instead of…whatever he was now. Sirius could handle this.

He thought.

"Look, Loki, you're one of my best friends, and I trust your judgement, and all, but, you know, you still need to rest, and get checked over by Madam Pomfrey. And I know your brother is worried as—"

"That is not the matter at hand," Loki said, holding up a hand for silence, but not looking. If it were possible to forget how much you hated politics and courtly airs, Sirius had done, in Azkaban.

"Well then, _Your Grace_ , what are we doing?" He was smart enough not to say "my lord", hinting at Voldemort's sometimes similar behaviour, when Loki was already worked up about that, amongst many other things.

"I am running out of time," he said, showing it by not beating around the bush, as he likely would otherwise have done. "Do you recall that I made brief mention of an entity who…brainwashed me, and sent me to take over your world?"

Sirius glanced at Thor, wondering what this had to do with anything, but, yes, that sounded vaguely familiar, if completely irrelevant. He recalled that this was the straw that broke the camel's back for Remus. That was when Remus would have broken the promise, but for…extenuating circumstances. That entire conversation was hard to forget.

He was distracted by Loki almost falling into a seat at one of the desks. He looked pale and…exhausted, but he turned to face Sirius, with great composure, nonetheless.

 _Show no weakness_ , Sirius thought, with some vexation.

"One matter that it seemed…better to delay mentioning, was the lingering effect that that has had on my mind. These events will not happen for twenty years, yet. I know not what manner of connection binds us still, only that he used an artefact known as the Mind Stone to invade my mind in the beginning. He has left holes in my mind…places where thoughts fall through. But that is not all."

Sirius bit his lip to keep from asking, _in the beginning_? And how did _anyone_ invade the mind of a god—especially one as elusive and slippery as his old friend? But he at least understood the relevance, now.

"Regardless, Thor could easily confirm that that connection lingers, even now. Perhaps it is fitting that I share a lingering bond with two…supervillains, as you would call them. Perhaps I deserve it. That is neither here nor there. What _is_ relevant is that, that first time, I brought an army to conquer your world, and it took a _team_ of superheroes to defeat me. Thor was one of them."

Sirius managed to fight off a laugh, one of those horrible, hysterical laughs that had convinced the Ministry that he was a remorseless murderer. Of course, he had trouble seeing his old friend in such a light, either, but he saw how grim Ron looked, standing off to the side, and decided that the entire thing was probably true.

"'Superheroes'? 'Supervillains'? Like DC Comics, or something? Was Wonder Woman there? She's my favourite."

Loki frowned, unfamiliar with what he was talking about, but could _sense_ Sirius grasping for levity in this situation. He ignored the interruption, knowing that Sirius needed the reprieve. Perhaps he did, too.

"It requires the use of _magic_ to maintain these barriers I have erected to keep him out of my mind. Everyone knows that all your barriers fall when you are asleep, leaving you defenceless. I do not have sufficient magical energy to sustain them, for the moment. I would prefer not to…go crazy and try to take over the world, here. There is less opportunity for collateral damage, at Grimmauld Place."

Sirius nodded. "I wouldn't mind if you tore the whole place down, although I think even you would have some trouble with that."

"I have an idea!" Thor said, suddenly. He seemed rather pleased with himself on account of this. Loki turned to him, and made a visible effort not to roll his eyes.

"What idea is _this_ , oh brilliant one?" he asked, with surprising patience, considering how close to the edge he clearly was.

"Do you recall the night that I nearly died?" Thor asked, with an almost cheerful eagerness.

Loki sighed. "Could I forget? That was a memorable day, on many counts."

"But I did not die. You did something…lent me your lifeforce, Mother said. Do you still have that ability?"

Sirius stood up straighter, understanding it first.

"Ginny would not be alive now, had I not," said Loki. Exhaustion showed through in his voice. Sirius didn't think he'd _ever_ heard Loki tired, worn out, at anything less than a high, sharp clarity of mind.

"Would it be possible for you to _borrow_ energy, instead of giving it?" asked Thor. Loki blinked, and considered the idea. He tended to forget that Thor was not actually stupid, and he tended to forget that he tended to underestimate him. Sometimes (rarely, it was true, but _sometimes_ ), he had very good ideas.

"Might you not borrow enough energy from me to sustain your magic until your disappearance would no longer be as suspicious?"

When Dumbledore would not notice that he had not come to the Hospital Wing, and begin to wonder whither he might have gone?

"Does it use magic?" asked Sirius, voice sharp.

Loki paused, considering. "That is never how it seemed to me," he said. "Magic to channel my life force into its intended recipient, but Ginny had no magic to spare. The transference is never an equation. Very well, then, Brother. I am willing to try your plan."

"Out of desperation," Sirius added, on his behalf.

"Only from desperation would I be willing to risk connecting my brother's soul with such a threat. The danger is minimal, however. Don't look so alarmed, Thor."

Thor shifted on his feet, but walked over to stand next to his brother, who, for at least the third time that night, opened his sixth and seventh senses.

He reached for an almost familiar connection, a bridge, and closed his eyes to minimise distractions. He knew how it felt to channel lifeforce into another. But it was only with his seventh sense wide open that he realised just how much of his own energy he'd drained, tonight. No wonder he was exhausted: he'd almost drained all of his reserves, and his last few spells _had_ been drawing upon his lifeforce. But he didn't dare to take too much energy.

It reminded him rather of the length of mind-twine he'd taken from Moo—from Crouch. Neither was a physical substance, but this had more give and stretch to it, more like water or goo. Which perhaps was fitting, given its originator.

Almost immediately, he felt slightly more awake (perhaps as if he'd just been jolted with actual electricity), and he broke off the connection, finding that his mind seemed clearer, now, thoughts easier to connect. He was less as he had been after the Quidditch Match of Doom, or his first encounter with dementors. Fatigue was held at bay.

"Thank you, Brother," he managed to say. There was still too much of pride about him (arrogance) to make the words ever easy to say. "That was a good idea. I should not be surprised that you have those, any longer. I have too often underestimated you. And perhaps underappreciated you. I would be ungrateful to ask for a better older brother, even had I a conception of what that would mean."

"Don't get all sappy on us, Loki," said Sirius, with a kind of sarcastic mockery that he'd come to associate with Stephen.

"I am never sappy," said Loki. "But rarely ever grateful, either. Shall we continue to the Hospital Wing, then?"

"I don't suppose we have much choice," said Sirius, glaring at the floor, which, to Loki's knowledge, had done nothing to offend. This was going to be a very long night, indeed.

* * *

"'Safer this year', they said!" Madam Pomfrey cried. "Safer than _what_ , I'd like to know!"

She was doing her usual routine examination, trying to find any and all injuries sustained during the Third Task, and…afterwards. Fawkes had healed his leg, and that was the only injury of consequence. But he knew better than to argue with Madam Pomfrey, particularly not with Mrs. Weasley looking over Madam Pomfrey's shoulder, as if she didn't trust the old Hogwarts nurse to do her job right. Loki had no idea how to deal with any of their attention.

He almost knew how to handle the Twins, for no other reason than that they were pranksters. He didn't know _them_ all that well, but there was a sort of connection between them, nonetheless. They were sort-of adopted family, too. That helped.

He scanned the room around Madam Pomfrey's bustling: Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Fred-and-George Weasley, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Cedric, being treated for Blast-Ended Skrewt burns (or rather, waiting for his dosage of pain remedy to wear off), Sirius….

Conspicuously absent: Percy Weasley, who was one of the Tournament Judges. He was with Minister Fudge, who was to award the Cup in a great ceremony, which would now be canceled, doubtless, in light of recent events. Ludo Bagman and Madame Maxime were with him; Karkaroff, an ex-Death Eater, of course, had fled rather than face Riddle's wrath. Ah! There were the Diggorys! He'd thought that they were among the conspicuously absent, for a moment, there.

Madam Pomfrey was still bustling about, still fretting, keeping up a constant murmur about dangerous Tournaments and fragile students. He scowled. His _mind_ was fragile, but he was, otherwise, perfectly fine.

He made the mistake of saying the last part aloud. "I will be the judge of that," said Madam Pomfrey, firmly, before she resumed her fussing. There was no stopping her, he supposed.

Ron stood by as a sentinel, and Sirius kept a sharp eye on Madam Pomfrey, as if worried that she'd try to harm him. As if she even _could_. Hermione, by contrast, was staring intently about the room. She lingered by the open window, and, with a start, he realised that she was surreptitiously examining the Map. Huh. There was dedication, and then there was an absurd amount of dedication. Hermione was verging on the latter.

He withdrew his gaze, as if Skeeter were watching his area of focus _and_ could read his mind. Maybe she could. There were wizards who could do that. Dumbledore and Riddle came to mind.

Pomfrey finished her examination, and said, "Take these potions, and go right to bed. This one's for the pain, and this one's a Dreamless Sleep Potion; they do exactly as their name suggests."

He thanked her, took the tray with its potions back to his bed, and promptly set the tray aside, and waited.

"Aren't you going to take those potions, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley began, almost immediately.

"No," Loki said, voice flat. But she had been kind to him (although rather unfair to Hermione), so he came up with an excuse. "I need to know what's going on. What became of Crouch? What became of Moody?"

"Over in the bed with the curtains drawn," said Forge, jerking his head in that direction.

Ah. That would explain why he hadn't noticed. He rather envied Moody, who could hide behind the curtains with no complaints or raised eyebrows.

"And Crouch?" he asked. He knew the rumour mill was swifter here in Hogwarts than almost anywhere else. He didn't doubt that they somehow knew whom he was speaking of.

"He's being guarded by McGonagall. Fudge'll want to speak with him; that's what Dumbledore's busy with, now. And Remus went off somewhere to do something so top secret it hasn't reached the ears of Hogwarts's best gossips," said Gred, with a regretful shake of his head.

Although they were incorrigible pranksters who planned on opening their own joke shop, he trusted their word. Mostly because he could tell when people were lying. Most people. But including them.

He didn't know Bill or Charlie well enough for them to initiate any sort of conversation. Bill had either been recruited by Hermione, or was just trying to figure out what she was doing. She had better not have told him about the Map.

Charlie stood even further to the side, as if wondering what he was doing here at all. He seemed to be trying to bring himself to go over and speak with the Diggorys.

Loki shook his head, and leant back against the pillow. Ginny stared at him, with wide eyes slowly narrowing.

"Hello, Ginny," he said, with something that might be mistaken for a smile. Her eyes narrowed further, her face settling into a truly alarming stormy glare.

"Is that all you have to say?" she demanded. He recoiled, not expecting any such outburst from her. He looked from Hermione, still engrossed in watching the window and Map, to Ron, standing guard at the side of the room, who seemed perplexed at his predicament. No help in either corner. Bother. Sirius had the gall to look _amused_.

"What more do you require of me?" he demanded, trying not to sound _too_ confused. Ginny was Ginny, and thus inscrutable. Her eyes narrowed still further, and he had the sense that he'd made some sort of mistake, although, once again, he couldn't discern _what_ , for the life of him.

Molly had wandered off to heckle Madam Pomfrey, and Arthur had gone to pay his respects, or to congratulate Cedric, or some such. Ginny seemed to feel this was sufficient distraction, because she leant forwards, and said,

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?" She sounded on the verge of tears, and her tone was not at all similar to how people would sometimes say similar things in jest. She meant it.

"Ginny, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, and Sirius made a concerted effort not to laugh. Ginny thought he was laughing at her, and whirled around to glare at Sirius, who looked quite taken aback, taking an actual, literal step back, and folding in on himself slightly. Loki didn't blame him in the slightest. Ginny might have only been fourteen, but she was clearly going to grow up to be more than a bit alarming. Scratch that. She was already more than a bit alarming.

"Please," she begged, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "I know you're not—not _my_ Harry," she said, barely blushing through her concern. Fear? "You're being ever so polite, and so very distant, and you barely said a word to anyone else since you've arrived. You're not Harry."

Loki stared at her. He hadn't thought that _she_ , of all people, would notice. Particularly not with Hermione otherwise occupied, unable to call attention to any differences in his behaviour. The only other two who might notice in this room were Sirius and Ron, and neither of them would have revealed him. His gaze flicked over the two of them, again. Sirius had developed an odd, mature solemnity to his air, all responsible caution and vigilance. Ron was trying his hardest to see without being seen, and failing spectacularly, as only he could. It would help if he fidgeted less. But he also had a sort of aura to him that called for the attention of others— regal bearing, an air of command. How Loki had missed it before third year, he didn't know. Probably hidden under his self-delusion.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he repeated, a second too late. And then, to make up for it, he added. "If you were right to be suspicious, don't you think _Ron_ or _Sirius_ , who know me best, would have noticed? Hermione I'll grant you; she seems otherwise occupied. I'm only tired, Ginny."

And he was. He was so tired that it hurt. But he could go a long time without sleep; this he knew from experience.

Her gaze tried to soften, in defiance of her current sentiment. You could see the battle waged across her face, but her resolve won out.

"Is that right?" she asked, and he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, which was, of course, tangled, but not to the bushy point of Hermione's impossible hair. He withdrew his hand, and looked back at her.

"It's exactly right, Ginny," he said. But he was too tired to lie, too tired to be credible, too tired to fight. Perhaps that made him weak. He was, furthermore, rather… _gratified_ , by Ginny, of all people, noticing the difference.

He realised that he had not asked for Luna to visit. He did not particularly want to see her. She was fun, and fascinating, and her ideas had more merit than her classmates gave her credit for, but tonight was a night of cold, harsh, indisputable realities, not of dreams.

The window slammed with a loud bang, and everyone started, save for Thor, Sirius, and Loki, all for rather obvious reasons. All for the _same_ reason. It was not sufficient distraction to dislodge Ginny, who reached out for him.

"Sorry, everyone," said Hermione, hiding something in the pockets of her robes, and coming over to sit at Loki's bedside.

"How are you doing, Harry?" she asked.

"Do you expect me to say that I am doing well?" he asked, with narrowed eyes. Thor at last came over, in case there be need for intervention. To protect Hermione, who did not know.

Something clenched in the vicinity of his stomach, and Hermione, flush with victory, did not notice, but Ginny did. Just as she'd noticed that he, usually the first to start at loud noises, had barely moved at all since he'd lain down.

"He hasn't drunk any of his potions," Ginny said, with narrowed eyes, "and he's acting funny."

"He's had a rough night," Hermione said, in her most soothing voice. "Give him space—"

"No!" cried Ginny, throwing off the hand Hermione tried to grab her arm with. Hermione blinked, and took a step back, stunned.

Ginny reached out a hand to him, and he stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. His mind filled with white noise. He shook his head and pressed a hand to his temples. He was faintly aware that everything hurt, and remembered that he'd been put under the Cruciatus. He didn't even think he'd remembered to mention that or the Imperius Curse in the summary he'd given Dumbledore. With his main weapon rendered useless, the Sword of Gryffindor, and the presences of Sirius and Thor, were the only reassurances he had.

"Harry, please," Ginny begged, and he noticed her hand, still outstretched, and thought of Mother.

He understood what an outstretched hand meant. It was always a gesture of assistance, a forging of bonds, but then, too…it signified a choice. A choice between proud independence and humble dependence. A choice between inner strength, the resolution and conviction that you could make it alone, and a willingness to take risks, to form bonds. He thought, in a brief moment, of all that he'd decided about forging bonds, of his own arrogance and ingratitude, but it was still almost a reflex, by now, to take her hand, staring at his own as if they'd acted of their own volition.

"I'm fine, Ginny," he said, and somehow, he mustered up a smile for her, even as a part of him wondered why he bothered.

He realised, belatedly, what memories might have been brought to mind by his abnormal behaviour, memories of days spent in a haze, coming to in unfamiliar surroundings, unsure of how she had come to be there.

"It's alright," he said, _Harry_ said, leaning halfway out of bed to place an arm around her and draw her closer, as she began to cry.

He'd made her cry again. His record with her wasn't very good at all, was it?

"You're a noble prat," she said, through her tears, as Hermione looked on with something between smugness and surprise. Raised eyebrows, combined with a smug smirk? Hmm. Ron nodded in his direction, a nod of acknowledgement, as if he understood more than Loki did of proceedings. Which he probably did, between Hermione and Jane.

In a moment of impartiality, perhaps caused by Sirius, with his grin and his hands in his jeans pockets, he hated them all. That was, he decided, the meaning of family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry about that. Forgot to change the publication date.


	29. The Ministry in Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ministry decides not to bother trying to stop Riddle. Dumbledore makes plans; Thor makes a promise.

He hadn't forgot Luna, but there was something different between the way he thought of Ginny and the way he thought of Luna. Besides, there was nothing inherently…romantic about lending comfort to one distressed. It was…chivalrous. A ravenclaw could not be expected to appreciate such as much as did a gryffindor.

Loki had no idea where such boundaries were drawn,anyway. He could work a crowd, he understood what made people tick, but building a genuine relationship of any other kind than enmity or rivalry was a mystery, _terra incognita_ , for him.

What did he know of friendship? Of family? Of love? He was the scholar-advisor, and then he was the criminal-freak. It was difficult for him to know where others would draw such boundaries.

All he knew was that, with Ginny this close, his heart was beating rather wildly, and he was shaking. He knew that he didn't love Luna, and rather suspected that she knew that she didn't love him, but he was… _unnerved_ , by Ginny. Riddle had given them something in common. Which meant that only he could comfort her, reassure her that he was still he, not possessed, not under the Imperius, not brainwashed. He was particularly susceptible to all of those things, he knew, but he'd managed to fend them all off tonight. For the most part. But he could not allow himself to forget about his barriers, the price of their failure, no matter how tempting it be in the moment.

There was a moment of single-minded focus when the world seemed to reduce to just them, when he might have done any number of things that he would have regretted, later. Because Ginny would hate him after, because it might hurt Luna.

He was aware of her burying her head in his shoulder to avoid showing the world that she had been crying. He ran his fingers through her hair, which was, most unjustly, far less tangled than his (although he had great cause) thinking, mostly, of Mother, how a gentle touch was calming. Soothing. Ginny needed to calm down. And he was fairly sure that this worked on Hermione, given Ron's usual tactility. If you had an older brother with success in your current area of focus, you might as well take your cues from him.

"Shh, Ginny. I'm fine. Everything will be alright. Riddle will not hurt you, I promise," he said, and then his eyes widened as he realised what he had said. But he quite meant it, too. No one would harm Ginny under his watch—especially not _Riddle_ , who had once before. "Don't worry about _me_. I'm tough, remember?"

She nodded, and gulped, and hiccupped, and then pulled away, eyes narrowing. He stared at her, but was unable to think of an excuse to make her stay. His gaze fell away from her and he swung his legs back over the bed, considering going over to the Diggorys. Mrs. Weasley chose just this moment to remember him again.

"Oh no, you don't, Harry," she said. Loki resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment, or, more likely, raise an eyebrow at her excessive mothering. Mother had never been overprotective.

Then again, not everyone could be like his mother.

"Better now, Ginny?" he asked, expression once more closed, his heartrate settling into something more regular. He already missed her warmth. She nodded, and reached for a box of tissues to dab at her eyes and blow her nose. She was pretty, even with her eyes rimmed with red and her face drooping. And she was so strong, so full of life. His fists clenched again at the thought of what Riddle had done to her. She seemed to have recovered, but that was before this year. He knew the situation had changed, now that Riddle had been resurrected. Revived.

"Haven't you taken your potions, yet?" Mrs. Weasley demanded, arms akimbo, as she stared him down. Perhaps she didn't realise that she had her wand in her left hand, or that it was sparking. At least Thor had an external justification for his eccentricities.

"I need to know what is happening," he said, again. "The danger is not passed until sunrise greets the new day. Until then, until I know that Crouch is in Azkaban, I cannot afford to let my guard down."

Tears brimmed in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, but he duly ignored her, gaze scanning the room again. He was halfway through the room when the door to the Hospital Wing opened, and Dumbledore entered, striding over to Madam Pomfrey.

"How is Alastor?" he asked, in a low voice that Loki nevertheless heard.

"He should recover," she said, in a stiff voice. "But he should be sent to St. Mungo's—"

"That is a difficult choice to make, given current circumstances. And Harry?"

Loki tried to seem as if he weren't looking. Dumbledore, deliberately or because Ron was better at hiding than previously assumed, did not seem to notice Ron listening in. Sirius was frighteningly casual about eavesdropping, leaning against the wall as if merely keeping watch.

"He hasn't taken his potions yet, Headmaster!" Mrs. Weasley screeched. "And we've told and told him, but he doesn't seem to think he's _safe_ , as if you ran a military camp instead of a boarding school. I swear, I—"

"Harry," said Dumbledore, coming over to stand before his bed. "Why the delay?"

He was saved having to answer by a distraction in the form of the door being flung open, and Snape, McGonagall, and Fudge entering, emitting different levels of undiluted wrath. Their arrival was presaged by the sound of their bickering, audible even through the walls with the doors closed, which drew the attention of all present in the room. To judge by the words spoken before their entrance, something had happened. Minister Fudge had brought something into the castle "for his own protection", and something had gone wrong.

Straightaway upon entering, McGonagall led Snape and Fudge, twirling his bowler hat, over to Dumbledore.

"Now really, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "I expected better of you. I left you to guard Crouch—"

"Oh, there is no need to guard him, Albus! The Minister has seen to _that_."

And the eyes of the entire room were upon him.

"Now, really, woman, see sense!" Fudge began, but McGonagall, nostrils flaring,cut him off.

"I was watching Crouch, as you asked. Professor Snape went to fetch the Minister, who seemed to feel that his personal safety was in danger. He insisted upon bringing a dementor into the castle. Well, no sooner had it arrived into the room when it swooped down on Barty Crouch, and—and—"

Words failed her. Loki barely repressed a shudder ( _show no weakness_ ), as it did not take a genius to figure out what had become of Crouch—why he no longer required guarding. The dementor had sucked out the entirety of his soul, via the Dementor's Kiss. His soul was lost beyond recall.

Fudge had brought a _dementor_ , of all things, into the school for his own protection? It was just as well that Loki had been trapped here, in the Hospital Wing, although he would have been safer at Grimmauld Place. A weight landed on his shoulder, and he blinked, looking up to see that Thor had moved whilst he'd been focused on listening in on the conversation. Ah, well.

"Well, really, it's no big loss," Fudge blustered. "A Death Eater escaped from Azkaban, and a criminal—we don't even know how he escaped, but that's no matter—"

"It is very important, indeed, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, voice very grave. "He cannot now give testimony as to why he did what he did—or how."

"He wouldn't have been able to, regardless!" Fudge cried, scoffing. "He was a madman, clearly delusional—he seemed to believe that he was operating under You-Know-Who's orders, as if he could bring him back!"

Dumbledore leveled a stern look down his nose at Fudge. "But it was not nonsense. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has returned."

Fudge sputtered and choked. "What… Dumbledore, you can't believe this—"

"I have seen convincing evidence of his return."

"He's back!" Cedric cut in, rushing over to them. "I saw him myself. And Harry—Harry had to _fight_ him. You can't deny something like that."

"With all due respect, Mr. Diggory, and my heartfelt congratulations, I assure you, I think the night's events might have been…a bit too stimulating for you, seeing things that weren't there. And, as for Mr. Potter—"

He turned to face Loki here, who was studiously ignoring him. That invisibility had been nice whilst it had lasted.

"Well, I'm not sure… I've heard some rather odd rumours concerning him, as well…seems you've been hiding things from us. Having funny turns all over the place, is he? And a _parselmouth_ —"

His lips seemed to be attempting to twitch into a smile—or perhaps the other way around, and he was attempting to suppress one. Loki kept his expression neutral, somehow, but his hands clenched tight.

"Are you doubting my godson's sincerity?" demanded Sirius, coming over to join them. He shot a brief, shrewd look in Loki's direction, but for the most part kept his gaze fixed on the current confrontation, hands in his pockets.

"Perhaps you ought to put less trust in a gossip than in a war hero (for that is what the headmaster is), Minister Fudge. Do you think he believes without cause?" Loki said, his voice so cold that some—including Fudge—shivered hearing him.

"And why should I believe _you_?" Fudge demanded. "He can't be back, this has to all be some sort of joke, Albus," he said, dismissing Loki to return his attention to the most important figure in the room, to his mind. Loki's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He _hated_ being overlooked. Thor's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"Patience, Brother," he said. "Peace."

Ginny gave them an odd look, but kept quiet, determined to listen in. Fudge was so loud in his masked anxiety that he drowned Thor out. That would have been quite the feat had Thor been speaking at full volume, but he was trying to be quiet, which made it a stroke of luck, instead.

"The sooner you accept the facts, the sooner you can begin preparing for the coming war. None of us want for this to be true, Cornelius. Accept that he is back, take measures against him—send envoys to the giants and the werewolves, those marginalised groups who felt that they had no choice but to side with him before. Prepare the—"

"'Envoys to the giants and werewolves'? You must be mad, Albus! I'd be pulled out of office so fast it would make your head spin."

For the third time that night, Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes blazed with power and fury. Fudge tried to pretend that he wasn't cowed, but he was spinning that ridiculous hat of his faster than usual, and full of nervous jitters.

"You are blinded, Cornelius, by the love of the office you hold!" Dumbledore shouted. "Take preventive measures now, and I promise you, you will go down in history as one of the greatest Ministers of Magic ever to live. Fail to prepare the people, and you will be remembered as the man who gave Voldemort a second opportunity to destroy the world we've worked so hard to rebuild!"

"But—but—!" stuttered Fudge. Most of the room was completely still, Hermione-fashion, as if to move would be to incur Dumbledore's wrath. Loki was listening, very hard, and was still as a statue as a result.

Snape glanced at Sirius, and then held out his left arm, rolling up his sleeve. Whatever was on there—doubtless the same Dark Mark branded upon Pettigrew's arm, by which he had summoned them—it made Fudge recoil.

"There!" he said, a bit breathless in his towering anger. "There! It is not as clear as it was an hour ago, when it burnt black, but you can still see it!"

"What is this, Dumbledore? Sending your staff members to show such disturbing images—what are you playing at?"

"He branded this symbol into the arms of each of his followers. When it burnt, we were to disapparate and apparate directly to his side. It's been growing clearer all year—Karkaroff's too—but tonight, when I saw it turn black, I knew that he had returned."

Fudge looked around the room, as if seeking for quarter, but even Madam Pomfrey seemed reluctant, but firm, in her dedication to Hogwarts and the Headmaster. None of those in the room were inclined towards sympathy to his plight. Sirius faced him with his hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed. There was no love lost between him and the Ministry that had condemned him to twelve years in Azkaban, without even a trial. Cedric was pale and shaking, but stood firm, and Mr. and Mrs. Diggory came up behind him as Loki watched, each wrapping an arm around him, in a silent show of support. Loki could stand to watch for about five seconds before he had to look away.

"I refuse to believe it. I don't know what you're playing at, Dumbledore, but you won't get the best of me!" Fudge cried, with an almost admirable defiance. If, you know, it weren't stupid and counterproductive, not to mention dangerous and ill-omened for the Wizarding World as a whole.

"I see we have reach a parting of the ways. Then you do as you see fit, and I—I shall do as I see fit," said Dumbledore, in an innocuous, bland voice, devoid of the radiant fury and power that had filled it minutes before. Fudge bristled, nevertheless, as if threatened.

"Now, see here, Dumbledore, I think I've shown you a great deal of lenity, over the years. Not everyone would have let you teach whatever you wanted without looking over the curriculum, or hire dangerous monsters like that werewolf and half-giant—"

Loki's fingers twitched. With Thanos's influence still creeping into his mind, it took a great amount of self-restraint, indeed, not to draw the Sword of Gryffindor, and force Fudge to see reason at sword-point. That wouldn't even count as using magic!

Thor saw, and shook his head. His grip tightened on Loki's shoulder, even as he looked back over his own at Fudge.

"I refuse to stay here and be threatened any longer. Expect a review of Hogwarts's curriculum in the coming months," Fudge fumed, as he stormed out.

The room as a whole looked back at the door as it slammed shut.

"Molly, am I right in thinking I can count on you and Arthur?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Mrs. Weasley, whose face was red with rage.

"Of course, Headmaster," she said. "Arthur and I know what Fudge is. It's love of his job that's held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride."

"Bill? Charlie?"

"Count us in," Charlie said, and Bill nodded.

"We'll fight!" said Fred-and-George. Dumbledore looked at them in stern disapproval.

"Only those who have reached age of majority may fight in the coming war," he said, which made no sense. Loki did not anticipate being permitted to wait for his seventeenth birthday before being drawn into the conflict.

"We believe you," said Mrs. Diggory, voice tight. "If Fudge wants to make this mistake, we'll do our best to convince people of the truth."

"He could have killed Cedric," said Mr. Diggory. "To have Cedric's experience dismissed like that. And you—Harry—I haven't expressed my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you for saving Cedric. I don't know how we can ever repay you, but we'll fight for you."

He crossed the room, holding out a hand for Loki to shake. Loki glanced at Thor, who withdrew with the immediate threat past. Loki shook the hand, examining this new Mr. Diggory. Hmm. Tempered at the forge, was he? But the trial of fire had yet to begin. They'd see where he was at the end of all this.

"You have my gratitude," he said. That might even be true. It certainly ought to be.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued, making his way through the room. Sirius had already been addressed, and Hermione and Ginny were underage. That left Professor McGonagall, who, as a gryffindor, was both predictable and rather reckless. Her head held high, she nodded her acceptance of Dumbledore's orders, and swept from the room once more.

"It is time, Severus," said Dumbledore, with a heavy voice. "If you are ready, I must ask you to take up your old post."

Snape looked very pale, and was perhaps shaking almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. Then, Dumbledore gave a nod to Snape, and a glance in Loki's direction, and Snape and Dumbledore left the Hospital Wing.

Yes. Tonight was going to last forever. He still needed to seal the corrupted corner of his mind back into its box—and that meant letting it out to play. He'd just have to outwait everyone else.

He could outwait almost anyone. He could wait.

* * *

"Well, go on, then," Hermione snapped. "Go off and hide at Sirius's place! But you'd better have answers for me, when you return."

A twinge of conscience—Hermione was being left out of a momentous secret, the kind of world-shattering secret that changed everything. She'd been patient, and let them keep it for over a year, but her patience had its limits. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Hermione had rarely cried since joining up with them, but she was crying now.

"Well, Brother?" Loki asked, narrowing his eyes at Thor, who shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and wanted something to fiddle with.

"We will tell you everything," he promised. "You deserve to know, but there was never a good time."

"There is rarely a _good_ time for the sharing of such secrets," Loki snapped. "Will you make your father's mistakes?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Harry?" Hermione demanded, arms folded in a very Thor pose. Loki blinked.

"An assurance that Ron does not back out of the agreement. We will explain to you, and you will understand. That is my promise to you, should Ron decide to attempt to postpone the inevitable once more."

"I have learnt my lesson," Thor proclaimed, which couldn't be true, but Loki let it pass. They had too little time to argue.

They made their way through the mostly still and quiet halls of Hogwarts to the Headmaster's Office. There was a part of him that wondered what Sirius had said that had convinced Dumbledore that they absolutely had to go to Grimmauld Place tonight, but, for the most part, he just needed to keep his attention on the current moment, and be grateful that he had managed to arrange it at all.

Fawkes trilled a hello to the both of them, and Loki felt obliged to give a cursory greeting, despite their parting ways only an hour ago. Then came the wonderful experience of floo powder, which at least was not a portkey. At the moment, the memory of tonight's events were still too fresh for him to tolerate portkeys. No amount of skill, or knowledge of magic, could prevent his falling on his face as he exited the other side, where Kreacher stopped skipping about the empty house to glare venomously at him. What a welcome.

Loki climbed to his feet, looking around the house again, as if he'd expected it to become a completely different place, what with who he was, and what he knew. But it still looked quite as dingy, drab, and unwelcoming as ever.

He wandered from the sitting room into the kitchen, thinking that he ought to find a place that he was _certain_ Sirius didn't mind having destroyed before he began. Also, he rather suspected that the corrupted corner of his mind would else have laid an ambush for those two, who were sufficient threats to its plans to merit such.

He waited for Thor and Sirius to enter the room, waited for them to be _ready_ , somehow, before he closed his eyes, and let his barrier fall. That was the last he remembered of that night, and several more to come.


	30. To Prepare for the Coming War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry follows up on poor Cedric, and the truth is at last revealed to Hermione--shortly before everyone is to return home for the summer.

To his lasting surprise, he did not feel that different once he had awoken, after what he was told had been five days, than he had before he'd lost awareness. He was in the Hospital Wing, as if he'd had some sort of minor accident on the quidditch pitch, instead of losing his mind and trying to take over the world again, or something. Even the headache had had a chance to subside, over the five days he'd been unconscious.

Ron, standing guard again, was the first to notice that he'd awoken. All he had to do was open his eyes, and turn his head slightly to the side, and Ron noticed. Perhaps it had been his turn to keep watch.

"He's awake!" Ron called out, and Hermione and Ginny appeared in Harry's line of sight even as he was turning his head to the left to look for them. Everything seemed to be moving very quickly, as if his reflexes, and even his mind, had slowed down. Or, perhaps, that was just a cooldown after a night filled with adrenaline. Ginny came to a stop, swaying, near his bed, but Hermione bent over him to cry on him, and try to suffocate him under a mess of bushy brown hair. Well, at least she cared.

He winced. Right, yes.

"Hello, Hermione," he said, "Ron. Ginny, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Of course you didn't. That's because you're an idiot," she said, in a voice that seemed rather strained and ragged, as if perhaps she were also on the verge of tears.

"What, did I die?" he asked, some acerbity creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "No. Of course, Hermione is doing her best to rectify _that_."

Hermione punched him in the shoulder, showing that she was, indeed, spending too much time with Ron. He gave a token "ow" of protest, but didn't pay much attention, his mind shifting elsewhere. At least Sirius had the restraint and subtlety not to immediately swarm him. He was sitting next to Harry's bed, looking cool and relaxed, as if he hadn't worried at all. Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he thought Sirius had been there all along, just in a less upfront fashion.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" he asked.

Harry paused to take stock of his current state. His leg had been healed by Fawkes, and the damage from having his arm cut open for the ritual had never been noteworthy. The real question had to concern his mental state, and, he'd had less time than everyone else to acclimate to the new normal, whatever that was. However long he'd been out. Ron had said three days, in first year, and that he'd then _died_. Who knew?

He realised that he was still all a coherent whole, as he'd been the last he'd remembered, except the corrupted corner of his mind was sealed back within its container wall. There was no far-flung corner of himself left as a guardian of it; perhaps it had never been necessary. When the barrier held, it held. When it fell, they'd best hope that Ron was nearby…. He'd reassembled himself anyway, automatically, as a response to the threat of it breaking out, in the graveyard. Now, however….

Well, now he seemed to be like everyone else—those who didn't have sequestered-off pieces of their mind, who didn't think of themselves as a series of masks. He'd somehow pulled himself together into a coherent whole. He hadn't felt this way since…well, _ever_.

Once upon a time, he knew, he'd thought of himself as just Harry Potter. Before the dreams had started. But, somehow, despite that, he hadn't been as himself as he was now. Hmm.

He'd think about all of that later, he decided, or rather, not at all. He blinked, and looked up at Sirius.

"I feel much better, thanks! Except for Hermione's efforts to crush me to death."

Hermione glared at him, and sat up, wiping tears from her eyes again. Ginny came over to stand by his bedside, not seeming to realise that she was pushing Hermione out of the way. Sirius quirked an eyebrow, and Harry, without Hermione weighing him down, slowly sat up. Everything he did seemed very slow.

"How long was I out, then?" he asked. It was a question needing to be asked. Sirius and Ron exchanged a look, Sirius a bit paler than usual, unless that was the light.

"Five days," Ron said, at last, his voice almost flat, but carrying throughout the Hospital Wing. Harry glanced to his left, noticed that the Diggorys had gone, observed that it was only the five of them in the Hospital Wing. Remus was out gathering the old crowd. Presumably, Mrs. Weasley and the rest of her family were making their own preparations, and Fred-and-George were sulking. After that…Neville, Seamus, and Dean were the only other contenders, and they were, doubtless, not considered "family" enough to visit Harry. Not that he was counting visitors, the way Dudley counted presents (lest he be shortchanged).

"…Five days," he repeated, his voice flat. He glanced askance at Ron. "I hope they didn't bring me to the hospital, again."

"Ah…no. They decided that the risk was too great, given current circumstances, I believe," Ron said, sounding uncomfortable. Sounding as uncomfortable as might be expected if he also took the hidden meaning.

"Well, at least I'm all fixed, then!" Harry said, brightly. Everyone stared at him as if he'd grown two or three extra heads, and he pouted, folding his arms. "Oh, come on! It's not _that_ strange for me to be in a good mood."

Silence. He frowned. "It _isn't_!" he insisted, as if anyone had said anything.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" Ginny said, sounding a bit breathless and desperate. "When you wouldn't wake up, and wouldn't wake up, I thought, 'well, what has Ron done to you, now?' But I guess I blamed him for nothing."

"It wasn't Ron," Harry said, trying to keep his voice soft and therefore somehow reassuring. "I used too much magic…that night. I think I very nearly died. Ron saved me."

"I'm so sorry, Ron!" Ginny cried, and gave Ron a hug, which he clearly hadn't expected. He shook his head, but returned the gesture half-heartedly, as if this were some sort of torture Harry had subjected him to.

Speaking of torture Harry had to subject him to….

"Will someone send for Madam Pomfrey, already?" Harry demanded. "I'm fine, but I need to talk to Hermione and Ron about something. And maybe Sirius," he added, with a glance in Sirius's direction.

Ginny sniffed, and huffed, and he felt the need to add. "I'm flattered that you came to visit me, Ginny. I'm not sure what I did to deserve so much regard, though."

Ginny just muttered something under her breath about noble prats, folding her arms, and waiting as Madam Pomfrey appeared, as if out of nowhere, to re-examine Harry.

* * *

"I believe I owe you an apology," Harry said, shifting on his feet, looking down at the floor, and reminding himself of _Harry_ Harry, before he'd known anything about his past life. He felt very much as if he were only fourteen.

Cedric blinked, and frowned, turning from looking out the window. "Oh, hullo, Harry," he said. "What do you think you owe me an apology for? What you said the other day—it's all so incredible, I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around it, but I don't know how…."

"I was quite rude, wasn't I?" Harry mused. "That night. And I shouldn't have bound you up that way, as I did with that promise I had you make—"

Cedric gave a little laugh that was difficult for Harry to understand. "No, I get it. I just don't know…I mean, this changes everything."

Harry came up to stand beside him. "Does it? Have you spoken with Ron?"

Cedric swallowed, and looked down. "Ye-yeah. It's just all too much to take in. I can't believe that he's—that you're—"

Words failed him. Harry heaved a sigh, trying to see what lay outside the window that had so captured Cedric's attention. He saw nothing noteworthy. Perhaps, for a quidditch player, looking out at the sky was assurance enough. Perhaps it was constant enough….

"I understand how you feel," Harry said, without looking at him. "It took me _years_ to come to terms with it all. I know you were raised Christian, which makes it harder for you. Just as long as you don't treat Ron as if he's some sort of demon or monster, I think we're okay. It was very brave of you, standing up to the Minister…the other night."

"What about you?" Cedric asked, frowning, turning to face Harry.

"We're not asking for your worship, Cedric. Just help me fight against You-Know-Who, and I'll ask nothing else of you. Ron's a hero. Unless he ended your conversation with a series of demands (and I doubt that he did) he'll fight for you along with the rest of the Wizarding World, regardless of beliefs and ideologies. You give him too little credit, and me too much."

He paused, then, trying to swallow the next question that wanted to be asked, but it was the stubbornest one. He rested his elbows on the windowsill, and wouldn't look at Cedric. If he didn't look, perhaps he'd be able to convince himself that Cedric wasn't even there.

"I…I don't suppose he told you who we were. Who he is. Who _I_ was." He turned to face Cedric at last. Cedric looked as if he had just been asked to divulge rather personal information.

"Well…" he began, and Harry sighed.

"Hermione still does not know," he said, turning back to the window. "I think I've convinced Ron to speak with her. It's only…this isn't the sort of thing that people are ready to hear about, yet. Particularly in the Wizarding World. And, if he happened to mention the Chitauri Invasion—"

Of course, he had. Harry glanced at the fidgeting Cedric, and then turned around to lean back against the wall, and the windowsill.

"Redemption is an elusive target," Harry said. "I refuse to make it more so by demanding respect from you that I have not earned. If we can remain friends, then that is favour enough for me."

Cedric blinked, but seemed to be trying to smile, somewhere behind his slackjawed expression.

"I—sure, yeah," he said, almost incoherent. Perhaps he was thinking that not just anyone could honestly claim to be friends with a god.

"In that case, allow me to apologise for my behaviour the other night," Harry said, glancing at the floor, unable to meet Cedric's gaze. Apologies were always hard to make.

"Hey, I was just grateful that you saved me from getting killed by—by Pettigrew, and You-Know-Who—"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," said Harry, smirking and spreading his hands wide. He frowned when Cedric took a step back, seeming a bit uneasy. "That's his real name. Figured you deserved it, after what you went through. Then, I went and bound you around in an unbreakable promise. I have much to make amends for, and I seem determined to make matters worse."

"Don't worry about it," Cedric said, holding out a hand to shake, which would have made little sense, if he hadn't added. "Congratulations, by the way."

Harry cocked his head, but took the hand offered. "And to you. Have you considered what you want to do after you graduate?"

Cedric visibly relaxed, now that all the talk of gods was over. "Well, at first I thought I might go into the Ministry—but not now. I think I might take an internship at St. Mungo's after the excitement dies down, but I don't see myself working for the Ministry any time soon. In the meantime, I think I'll find some sort of muggle job with flexible hours, so that I can fight in the war. I didn't think that that was what I'd be doing after I graduated, but hey!"

"Yes. Riddle does seem to complicate everyone's plans. I can think of no better path to redemption than defeating him, and then becoming an auror."

Cedric stared. "I…can almost see that," he admitted. "Which is a really weird thought. And I suppose Ron will join you?"

He still seemed a bit unnerved, glancing around after he spoke of Ron as if expecting Ron to suddenly appear when mentioned. That was Stephen's thing, however.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said, with an innocent smile. "You'd have to ask him."

* * *

"Wow!" Hermione gushed, looking around the Room (which had outdone itself, as usual) in awe, as even Harry had to resist the urge to tap his feet in impatience. It wasn't _that_ impressive, in spite of everything. It had replicated the room in which he'd first met Sirius, complete with coffee table. There wasn't a broken cage anywhere to be seen, however.

Sirius had sat this one out, claiming that he was busy. For some reason, Harry didn't believe him. It was clear that he thought that, as this had started with Harry and Ron, it had to end with them, too. Besides, three against one were hardly fair odds. Two against one was bad enough.

Harry underscored the resemblance by sending away the door, but Hermione did not seem to care at all.

"It becomes _anything_ you need? Do you have any idea what an extraordinary work of magic that makes this?" she asked, grabbing at Harry's shoulders in her excitement. He noted somewhere in the back of his mind that he neither flinched nor recoiled (which had her narrowing her eyes in overt suspicion), but he did lean backwards, shying away a bit, because Hermione was threatening in her enthusiasm.

"Yes, Hermione," he said, voice very flat. "I am aware."

As was anyone with any capacity for logic _or_ thought.

Hermione pouted, but turned back to face Harry.

"Oh, okay, what's the big secret?" she asked, and Harry sat down with less grace and greater speed than he might have wished. Hermione could be quite fixated on her goals. Not returning the Map until she'd caught Skeeter (and Harry had reawakened, but whatever) was only a recent example. They could, all three of them, be rather stubborn when they wanted to be. When there were important matters at hand.

"It's a complicated, lengthy tale, which is difficult to tell," Harry said, as if he had to buy Ron time. "You're a bit late to hearing about it, because I left the decision to Ron as to when to tell you, and he could never find the right time, apparently. Well, he took long enough to tell _me_ —I suppose you know that that was what we were fighting about, third year. Since Ron has never yet explained his part well, I'll minimise his role in this by explaining the majority, and give him yet another chance to explain the rest. I suppose Stephen will show up, somehow, at the end of this. He might be able to clear some things up."

"Who?" asked Hermione, frowning, brow furrowed, as she tried to figure out, perhaps, how there could be any person at Hogwarts whom she _hadn't_ heard of.

"We'll get to him," Harry said. "He's a friend of ours. And yours, as it turns out. From the future. I told you this was complicated."

Hermione looked as if she might be dizzy. She sat down on the sofa, quite abruptly. Ron surprised him by sitting down beside her, and wrapping an arm protectively around her. Harry held up his hands in an I'm-harmless gesture.

Of course, Ron had had the common sense not to let anyone take the Sword of Gryffindor from Harry, so Harry was still doubly armed. He hadn't gotten around to switching the sword and fang yet, so it was just as well. He would have hated to have been forced to resort to breaking into Dumbledore's office to steal the sword.

"I know you like to have all the facts laid out before you, before you get into details, so I'll start with those. First of all, Ron is a god. As in, an actual _god_ god, and probably one that someone as well read as you has heard of."

"You're joking," Hermione said, putting her head in her hands. "Ron, tell me he's joking."

Ron withdrew, instead. "Er," he began, which was just about as strong of a start as Harry had any right to expect. He rolled his eyes.

"But—but he _can't_ be. He just _can't_ ," she protested, an undertone of hysteria creeping in. Harry tried very hard not to roll his eyes at this overreaction. It probably didn't even seem one to her.

"Whyever not, Hermione?" Harry asked, staring at her across the table. "Come on, Hermione: look at me, and tell me why not."

"B-because…that's just…I mean, _crazy people_ think they're gods, and, well, I suppose _you're_ crazy, Harry—"

"Thanks ever so much for the vote of confidence—" Harry muttered under his breath. She might not even have heard.

"—But _Ron_ knows better," she insisted, with a sniff.

"Ask him for any proof you need. I don't even know why you find this so far-fetched."

Ignoring the fact that he'd taken four years to come to terms with his own identity.

Ron's gaze was stern and full of reproach. "He speaks the truth," Ron said, instead, sounding slightly surprised to be saying such words.

Harry scowled. It couldn't be _that_ incredible.

"But—but that's not _possible_ ," Hermione said, with mounting hysteria. Ron had the sense not to try to reassure her. She stared, wide-eyed, across the table at Harry, instead. "What have you _done_ to him, Harry?" she demanded, tears in her eyes.

Harry stood. " _I_?" he repeated. "What, do you think that my insanity is catching, Hermione? Are you concerned for yourself?"

"Little brother," said Ron, his tone laced with a generous dollop of warning, rebuke, _tread carefully_. Harry sat back down, again.

"Shall I continue listing facts, then?" asked Harry, with such abrupt levity that even Hermione, who often got lost in details, noticed and knew. "Ron is a god, he can prove it, or he could if most of his divine powers wouldn't make this room catch on fire. Of course, I'm sure that you know _aguamenti_ , but I'm not sure it would be sufficient."

Ron looked decidedly sheepish, at this, and would not look at either of them. Hermione opened her mouth to say something in protest, and Harry held up a hand to silence her.

"I suppose I made a similar mistake to his, and started in the wrong place, with the wrong facts. Let me say this, then, Hermione: I am the reincarnation of a god. There, nice and crazy for you, is it not? But I can prove it, Hermione. For, no matter the reason, I have retained a more limited capacity to use my old abilities in magic. Shall I show you what non-wizarding magic looks like? Of course, there's also sorcery, but Stephen is the only person I know who can use that."

"Harry, don't you think that's a bit crazy, even for you?"

"What did you _just_ finish saying, Hermione?" he asked, shaking his head, slowly, as if from disbelief. "And I promised you proof. But, for the moment, I am still listing facts. I have told you that Ron is a god, one of whom you have heard, and that I once was the same. In a past life. My mother in this life is the reincarnation of _Ron's_ mother in his past life, where I was his adopted younger brother. Yes, I know this is all rather involved, Hermione. Don't interrupt."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in a cutting glare. He recognised a dagger-glare when he saw one. Hermione was alarming enough on a good day. He hastened to press on.

"I suppose I should mention the whole deal with the Chitauri Invasion, too. But, that would necessitate explaining the Infinity Stones, for it to truly make sense. Even Sirius, whom we told at Christmas Break, didn't know about those until a week ago. Let's see: All you need to know at the beginning (I promise we'll go into more depth later, but I know that you need a basic framework, and to accept that framework, before we go giving you details) is that they're leftover pieces of the beginning of time, and contain immense power. They're about the size of the Philosopher's Stone, so about the size of a marble."

He held out his left hand, fingers and thumb spread apart, at about the right size. Hermione didn't interrupt, apparently deciding that it would be best to _listen_ to his entire complicated tale before interrupting. If Ron was lucky, he'd also get to tell his.

"No one knows the location of all of these artefacts, but some basic facts about them are common knowledge, for all that I have never heard mention of them, nor read about them, in books here in the Wizarding World.

"Each of them represents an aspect of the world, and allows a skilled wielder great control over those aspects. One of them, for instance, is composed of raw power, able to be channeled for great good or ill, especially if you were to use it in conjunction with the others. That is the Power Stone. Another allows instantaneous travel from one point in the universe to the other. It is, accordingly, called the Space Stone, which sounds a bit silly taken out of context. There are others: the Mind Stone, the Soul Stone, the Time Stone, the Reality Stone. Each of them is filled with a great deal of power, in addition to having control over aspects of the cosmos. And an ordinary human could never handle that raw power. It would tear them apart, or something equally nasty. The texts back home weren't exactly clear."

Hermione could not have made it clearer that she wanted very much to speak, but he ignored her mouthed repeat of the words "back home" to continue his impromptu lecture.

"The Tesseract, a very old artefact which served as a vessel-container for the Space Stone, has been on Earth for…a very long time. I don't know how long. During World War II, a special Nazi group you might remember from history class, named HYDRA, used its power to create weapons, among…other things. Captain America, whom I know you've heard of, was lost in the ice after having acquired it. It was recovered when they found him in the ice, although he won't awaken for another…two decades, I think?"

Hermione stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from interrupting. He was almost tempted to go easy on her, seeing that, but he forged on, instead. He glanced to the side, to see Ron looking, of all things, thoughtful. He blinked at the incongruous sight, and tried to keep his focus squarely fixated upon Hermione.

"An American government agency of super-spies—I think they're American. I assumed they were. Maybe they're worldwide. Hmm. Anyway, an organisation known as S.H.I.E.L.D. got their hands on the Tesseract, and, being human, they dared not to extract the Stone from within it. But they, as HYDRA had before them, used the power of the Stone to make weapons, as well. Although, I think they waited to start that until certain beings whom some might be inclined to be called _'gods_ ' returned to this world. I doubt anyone outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. knows all of the details, however, or could say for sure how long they were about such experimentation."

"But anyway, the return of gods to this world (or that was how it looked to them) meant that they felt they needed the extra firepower.

"However, that in turn caught the attention of a being from even further away than the gods who had… _invaded_ New Mexico. He brainwashed one of the aforementioned gods, and sent him to take over the Earth, in exchange for the Tesseract, and the Infinity Stone contained within it. In return, he lent him the Mind Stone, which basically could be used to an effect similar to the Imperius Curse. It was how he'd brainwashed that god to begin with.

"What followed was, naturally, a pitched battle, in which a team of superheroes fought off the army he'd also sent to help in retrieving the Tesseract, _and_ the god, who was taken back home for sentencing and punishment. This group of superheroes was known as the Avengers, and included the wayward god's brother, you know, and Captain America. And Tony Stark, amongst other people whom I can't expect you to have ever heard of."

"Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and Dr. Bruce Banner," Ron interrupted. Harry glanced at him askance.

"Of course, no one knew about that far-off entity; they thought that Loki had done it all of his own free will. But S.H.I.E.L.D. kept the Mind Stone that had been embedded into a staff so that it could be handled without the being having to touch it (or any of his subordinates; I think he could have touched it, himself), and Asgard reclaimed the Tesseract, which its king had left here long, long ago. _That's_ the future…about as much as I know of it, in summary form, anyway."

Hermione's head was spinning. She looked as if she might faint. Harry shrugged at Ron's glare, as if asking what more he was expected to do. There was silence for a moment.

"And I suppose you're claiming that you and Ron are those two gods mentioned in your story. Loki, and…and you didn't mention the other one, but I know that's Norse Mythology. But, all the records are so old, and have been Christianised; it's hard to tell what was changed to facilitate proselytising."

" _Thor_ and Loki. And believe me, before I remembered everything, I did research on the subject. I know how difficult it is to try to put the truth together with such wildly varying sources," Harry said, with a flippant wave of his hand.

"Thor was redheaded in one of the books I read. Red hair, blue eyes… but no one seemed to have any idea what Loki looked like. Harry, this is _insane_."

"Yes, well, my mind is not as stable as it ought to be," he said, and her eyes widened. Her heart forgot to beat for a few moments, as she put two and two together, the blood draining from her face.

"You—you're saying that _Ron_ is Thor, and _you're_ Loki?" she demanded, and he tried to pretend that it didn't bother him.

"You're very quick on the uptake, Hermione."

Her response was to bury her head in her hands. Ron laid a hesitant hand upon her shoulder, as if thinking she might whirl around and slap him. It didn't seem terribly out of character for her.

"You're telling me that _you_ got brainwashed by some…some alien being, and tried to take over the world, and…and…."

Words failed her. He leant back, as if he didn't care at all.

He winced.

"Well, _Thor_ , would you care to continue the tale? Another chance for you to explain this in a way that makes sense. I won't hold my breath."

Hermione looked back and forth between them.

"This is insane. You're _both_ insane," she said. Her hysteria had brought her to the brink of tears.

"Ah, Hermione—" Ron began, hesitant, but she glared at him, and he quietened. Harry smirked, but then his expression leveled out, and he looked away, before leaning forwards again.

"Well?"

This time, Thor began the story in the middle, which should probably be considered progress. He told of the emergence of the Aether, of bringing Jane to Asgard for treatment, the death of the queen (Harry's heart clenched, even after all the mentions before), of freeing Loki from his cell that he might show Thor another way out of Asgard.

Hermione wanted to ask about the Rainbow Bridge, here, but Harry cut her off, insisting that that was a detail, and she was missing the bigger picture. She glared at him, but shut her mouth again.

Thor relived the Convergence—how Loki had died in the battle against Malekith and the Dark Elves (which was a new story for Harry), preventing the Elves from returning the universe to a primordial time, and then how Thor'd grieved for the halving of his family.

At last, he'd appealed to his father for any way to save them, his mother and younger brother both, and he was sent back in time by powerful magic, to reunite in the same world that his mother and younger brother had been born into. The rest stood for itself.

"I don't believe you," she insisted. Harry cocked his head, glancing at her askance, and drew the Sword of Gryffindor out of thin air. She stared. "That—that wasn't there before, was it?"

"Of course it was. It was under an illusion that made it seem as if it weren't," he said, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, and she was being quite slow for not already figuring it out.

Thor gave him a sharp look, finally figuring out that Harry had had the Sword all along.

"You never gave it back did you, Brother? After the ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets, you kept the Sword of Gryffindor."

His voice was accusatory, but Harry just smiled, and then clapped. "I _was_ wondering when you might figure that out. You're making progress, at long last."

Hermione resumed staring back and forth between them.

"Would someone please wake me up, now?" she asked, burying her face in her hands. This time, Ron slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She did not seem to have the energy to resist. She wrapped an arm around him and buried her face in his shoulder, instead. Even though he was part of the reason she was in tears. Was there any consistency to her?

"Anything else?" she asked, after she'd stopped crying, with much effort put towards that goal on Ron's part. He kept his arm wrapped around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She might have reached the point where she resolved to think of all this, later.

Harry built a ball of pure white light, and sent it up towards the ceiling. Wizarding magic couldn't do anything remotely similar, as far as he knew. He shrugged. "That's all the basics. Well, except for Stephen—"

He cut himself off, as a ring of orange light formed in the room. He blinked at it, staring for a moment, before shaking his head, as a man in dark robes quite different from wizarding ones stepped out of it.

"Ah, Stephen!" he said, ignoring Hermione's sputtering about how _you can't apparate or disapparate on Hogwarts grounds_. "You're right on time."

 _A sorcerer is never late_ , he might have thought to himself, had he known the reference. _Nor is he early. He arrives_ _ **precisely**_ _when he means to._

Stephen had to make the reference, instead.

{ _end Book IV: Reweave Fate_ }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most abrupt ending for a book this entire series. Some plot threads will be resolved in the first chapter of Book V. Others will not.


End file.
